

The Life Lived

Copyright © 2019, Ian Murphy

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorised reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Acknowledgements

"Everybody has a book inside them," they said. They say many things. For years, there had been an itch I couldn't scratch, something in my gut that wanted out. Tests, scans and X-rays indicated that, yes, there was a book lodged in there. "Surgery is not an option," they said. "Go home to your family and prepare yourselves," they said. "Is their anything I can do?" I said. "Drink herbal tea, perhaps. Take up jogging," I said. "If it makes you feel better," they said. "But will it help?" I said. "No," they said. "But there must be something!" I said, slamming a fist on the desk. "There is only one solution to your problem," they said.

Three years, two children, half a cup of green tea and no jogging later, I extracted this book. It is now a part of the world and I take full responsibility for it. So there. However, I thank Daisy for providing the patience and faith required. I thank Aditi Seshadri for editorial prowess and endurance. And whether they like it or not, I dedicate this to loved ones lost, who provided far too much of the story.

One

Slow down, he thought. He clenched a fist over the curved handle of his cane. A hostage to Mrs Allsop's version of driving, this was one of the few experiences of his dotage where Miles Morgan was glad to be going blind. He could see little of the road, nothing of the speedometer, yet he took comfort in the assumption that even Death would struggle to catch them at their current speed. They hurtled headlong through the mist of the spring rain, and the narrow country road began to resemble a river running through the hedgerows.

'There's no rush,' he said, clearly and distinctly, having cleared his throat. 'It's not a race.'

'Oh,' said Mrs Allsop, all mock surprise, with her eyes on the winding road, 'It speaks.'

Miles ran a fingertip over the miniature dial of his hearing aid and irritated Mrs Allsop with it as it whined and whistled at her. She was tolerant to a point. She had become more carer than sister-in-law over the years and, as always, had offered to collect the old man from his hospital appointment that day. The infirmary of Edinburgh was many miles north and the alternative hospital transport would return him home safely but slowly. He had no qualms about utilising Mrs Allsop and her car, as there was no-one else to impose upon, and it meant he would not have to endure the bus or its passengers. Mrs Allsop could also see for herself if he had offended the doctor once again.

The two of them had been sitting in silence since leaving Edinburgh, the old man having banned any further discussions concerning cataracts, care homes and the opinions of doctors who did not know what they were talking about. Mrs Allsop pursed her lips as she held her tongue, emphasising the cluster of wrinkles that gathered around her mouth as she did so. She slowed down as she signalled, turning west onto a narrower road that brought the low rise of the distant Cheviot Hills into view. They were now in the depths of the vale and the landscape soothed her as it had always done. She moved up through the gears once more.

For an old gal, Miles had thought, she certainly drove as if time were running out, and he supposed that it was. Thinking his thought, he then raised a hand from the cane that was clamped between his knees and disturbed his spectacles as he rubbed his eyes.

Do cataracts itch?

His farsightedness had crept up on him through his later years and he had adjusted well to such a world.

Now cataracts.

He sighed as he applied pressure to his eyelids and thought that he had seen enough of life anyway, so no matter. He returned his hand to his cane without any thought to it, and the wet road ahead became as indistinct to him as the road behind. But he knew these roads well. With rain and mist and the hypnotic wiper blades interfering with his view of the world, the old man turned his attentions to his driver. Her profile remained severe as she tore around the bends, following the rise and fall of the land, and Miles pondered the rules of the road that this woman violated on any given journey. He allowed himself a private laugh as he considered how calm and composed the bird-like old gal was, rigid in her tweed reserve. Unfortunately for the world, Miles often thought, she was one of a dying breed. He considered her a woman of false beliefs and he almost envied her for it. She had faith regardless.

She threw them around another blind bend, confidently avoiding the bloodied carcass of something-or-other as flattened as the road it lay upon, and they continued along the hedge-lined straight, the snow-capped peaks of the borders now decorating the distance. Miles then became aware that the bridge would soon be upon them and he was failing to resist the memories that the road home evoked. With little need for thoughts of ambition or hopes for the future, no fear of consequence, there was nothing of a greater interest to him than those days already behind him. The irrelevance of all that Mrs Allsop wished to speak about, the preparations and prescriptions, the advice of doctors and solicitors and specialists; all were distractions. The lack of meaning he had acquired made it all the more important for him to remember what he could, while he could. He felt that he was now outliving his own past, that memories were all he had to occupy his time; everything else had fallen by the wayside with the years.

It had been a lifetime since he had felt the need to drive and he no longer did, and he now sat trying to recall what it must feel like, charging along at obscene speeds where a flick of the wrist could end everything. Nowadays, he was content to go through life a passenger. A stranger came to mind, a gentleman who had driven him much slower along the very same road many years before on one particular day he could not forget, despite his best efforts. He recalled that man fondly, because he had never known him, and the weather on that particular day had been colder and wetter than it was now.

That had been, what, fifty years ago? Sixty?

'Talking to yourself again?' asked Mrs Allsop, singing the words.

'Eh? Was I?'

The road continued between fields of dirt and Mrs Allsop reduced her speed as the stone arch of the bridge came into view.

'Home soon,' she said, and sounded defeated as she did so.

Miles ignored her and surrendered himself to memory with fists clenched, the blood being squeezed away from under the skin of his knuckles. A faint smile faded as he felt the rise of the bridge move beneath them, and he found it somewhat difficult to relate to that version of himself who had thrown himself from that bridge all those years ago.

Two

All those years ago, remembered as 1953 or thereabouts, Miles had concluded after much one-sided deliberation that the only people who loved him were those who had never known him. He thought the same could be said of most people. He had been of the view that if a man lived long enough, and perhaps well enough, he may just happen across where he had started out from, old and weary, but that would be where he would wish to remain. The present and its people were unattractive until confined to the past, and Miles retreated to those places of the past whenever possible. Living life motionless, the world no longer promised a welcome horizon. Such was no longer possible. Being still was what he had done best of late. In the many days leading up to his current half-hearted resolve, the most effective means of taking control of his life was to simply take it.

The imperceptible vibration of what remained of Miles Morgan sat numb on the cold stone arch of the bridge, the collar of his tweed jacket upturned to little effect, the freezing winter waters passing beneath his feet. The wind blew through the skeletal branches of distant trees, moved silently across the sodden fields, then found Miles, threatening to deliver him from his indecision. If there was a sun that day, it lurked behind the sky and diffused itself over the surrounding patchwork of the farmer's kingdom of dirt. As Miles sat, he considered himself a dead man surrounded by a dead land.

Light rain fell reliably and created a soothing quiet, acknowledging the approaching storm that lingered above distant hills. Looking down from the stone on which he sat, Miles parted his brogues to reveal a distorted reflection of something pretending to be him, but which he felt more separated from than ever before. His image shimmered amongst the expanding circles that emerged on the water's surface with each drop of rain.

How did I get here?

Without much thought but with more than enough malice, he suddenly did his very best to tear the hair from his scalp with both hands; confident that it would not actually tear out. The rage turned to pain and to muffled sobs, and having been here before, Miles Morgan recognised the pointlessness of it and he let his head fall into his chest, nestling close to an exhausted thirty-one year-old heart.

He calmed. He had to be calm to go ahead with that which he was about to do. And he was to do it this time.

Oh yes.

Life had finally beat him dead. All he had to do was dispose of the body.

Miles had now been there for longer than was comfortable. He was not dressed for the rain and his trousers were now clinging to him. The muttered curses directed at his current state were interrupted by the sound of a repetitive, metallic click. He turned to the sound to see an older man pushing a bicycle over the bridge. Miles stared at the man as the man walked by without a word. The man stared straight ahead.

Go away.

The man was old, as old as Miles' father would have been, with a beard that obscured his neck. Miles continued to stare until he had to turn his head when the man passed behind him. With eyes on him, the man offered a furtive glance and smiled a hidden smile beneath his beard.

'You're soaked through,' said the man as he walked on. Once across the bridge, which was not particularly steep, the old man mounted the frame, and continued on his way.

Miles now felt deflated that the passing cyclist hadn't questioned a man sat on the edge of a bridge with swollen eyes and a head hung low. Perhaps a conversation, some concern or compassion could have made all the difference, Miles had thought many times since. Some understanding. Reassurance.

No. It wouldn't change anything.

Miles could not recall the last time he had spoken to anybody. People had stopped coming to the house just as they had stopped phoning, which allowed him the isolation that he had craved.

The beauty of the surrounding countryside was not lost on Miles Morgan that day, but it could not overwhelm his numbness. The world would keep turning in his absence. It was his life to live, so his to end. He decided that some passer-by, walking a dog, no doubt, would find him downstream, amongst weeds. Perhaps the cyclist would come across him once more. It would be a fine story to tell at dinner parties.

I am an anecdote.

No more parties.

No more of anything.

Miles no longer had an idea of how to function outside of the comfort zone of his own thoughts. He now knew how Sarah must have felt. Such a realisation made matters worse.

Enough.

He was thinking about her. How she had been. That image of her in the light of the kitchen, against the window, against a brighter day. He ignored his imitation of her forgotten voice in his head, mouthing forgotten words, because she only spoke his words through a dead mouth. Dead words from a body he had held tightly but never tightly enough, and never would again. A body that, the last time he had held it, had been limp, heavier than at any other time, and naked in its own defeat. He would never hold that body again.

The breeze picked-up and nudged his back, a gentle reminder from the present.

Did he jump or was he pushed?

Either way, Miles decided against making the required effort to steady himself and he fell towards the reflections below him. The falling man could not think of any reason to regret the final decision. He even felt it could have been considered a most relaxed ending.

Had it been the ending.

In a style true to his entire life, Miles Morgan did not succeed. He later considered that the mere gesture itself had been enough. It was the thought that counted. He would conclude that all that had gone before was now in its rightful place. In another style true to his entire life, Miles Morgan was mistaken.

The water was inconveniently refreshing.

Three

Sodden leather shoes ambled along the roadside. He walked cold and wet on a cold and wet day on the road that led home. To his house.

Eyes to the ground, he was vaguely aware of occasional motor vehicles that passed by in the dirt spray of their own making. The weight of mud that clung to his brogues, acquired from the fields he had crossed, now took its toll on his aching legs. In spite of the appalling conditions of the season and himself, he could not think of any weather that would better complement his current mood. He had always preferred the rain. He had always remembered moments in the rain vividly.

With the thick tweed jacket and thick cotton trousers clinging to him, Miles felt heavy all over. He rubbed at the persistent burning of his eyes that had manifested as a result of his tears, and he pushed onward along the miles of road that still lay ahead of him.

Amidst the white noise of passing traffic, he became attentive to the one vehicle that sounded different. It was different, because it had not diminished; it had pulled in to the side of the road. Miles looked up from his shoes to the motorcar that waited for him expectantly. He stood still for a moment and peered at the dark shape of the driver who was visible through the haze of rain and brake light. The exhaust exhaled hot steam into the cold air. As Miles approached, the door opened for him. Miles peered inside.

An elderly man, somewhat frail, leaned at an uncomfortable angle across the passenger seat, 'Well, come on,' he said. 'You're soaked through.'

Prompted by the remark, Miles looked down at himself unnecessarily, 'But I'll get your seat all wet,' he mumbled.

'Sorry?'

'I said, I'll get your seat wet.'

The driver looked ahead as if to locate his next words further down the road.

'Well, that's okay,' said the driver, 'Don't worry about it.' He contemplated adding more, but then simply smiled as he turned his gaze back towards Miles.

'Okay,' said Miles, without enthusiasm. He got into the car and further into his own, aged memory. Miles had recalled this event many times throughout his life, and in many different ways, from many points of view.

And I am as old now as that driver was then, he now thought.

His younger, apparently suicidal self, had immediately felt worse for being out of the rain as he closed the door on himself. He made a point not to reach for the safety belt. The driver would not mind, as Miles noticed that he was not using his either. The motorcar drove away and onward and Miles noted that the old man did not look before doing so. Miles was increasingly uncomfortable, becoming aware of how wet he really was, increasingly shrink-wrapped in his clothing. He stared through the window and through everything, waiting for half-remembered conversation. For an unremembered amount of time, the battering rain seemed the only noise that accompanied the car's air heater, which exhaled dust and a sickening warmth into the interior. The old driver's glances could not choose between his passenger and the oncoming road, and his passenger sensed this.

'Looks like you are about as wet as it is possible to be,' said the driver. 'Walking in this, you'll catch your death.'

Something along those lines.

Miles pondered the possibility, but he could not think of a response worth offering, so did not. Instead, he sat numb, and considered whether it would be possible to make his heart stop by sheer willpower alone.

'Where do you wish to go?' the driver had said, as he furtively checked for oncoming cars and bends in the road.

Without turning his attention to the old man, Miles said, 'Just home. It's not far. Thank you for stopping.' In saying so, he realised that he actually meant it. He turned and offered a weak smile to the old man. He then looked at the hands on the steering wheel. They were thick and strong, with inelastic skin draped over thick veins and large, stubby fingers. Despite the age gap between the two of them, Miles was not confident that he could defend himself against such hands.

The driver followed the eyes of his passenger, 'Fifty-three years.'

'I'm sorry?' said Miles.

'Of marriage,' said the driver, fingering the metal band on his finger.

'Oh.'

'Yes. Fifty-three years but no longer counting.' The driver's face had fallen.

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

The driver moved his left hand to the gear stick, out of sight, 'No need to be sorry. It's just that time of life. Things fall away.'

'Fifty-three years. That's a long time,' said Miles, and he tried to sound positive.

I always found positives for others.

'Not long enough,' said the driver, shifting gears with the incline of the road. 'Quite some weather to get caught out in,' he said. 'You're shivering. You want the heater up, yes?'

'No, that's fine. I'm okay.' Miles felt sick to his stomach in the warmth of the car. He did not want to chat, and his stomach did not want him to chat until it had settled, but he knew he would not get away with silence here.

You live out here somewhere?

'You live out here somewhere?' Miles had said.

'Yes...' said the driver. The 'yes' was conditional in some regard. Considered. 'I've been here all my days,' and he turned to Miles, 'More than I care to mention.' A smile came to the driver as he returned his gaze to the road. 'And yourself? I can't think of any places nearby within reasonable walking distance. What are you doing way out here? Where are you from, exactly?' A tension had crept into his tone. A suspicion.

'I'm a couple of miles on from the mill,' said Miles, 'There's good walking around and about. I like to take walks. Long walks. I had nothing better to do.'

Defensive.

'I meant, originally,' said the driver. 'Your accent is strange.'

'I'm not a native, if that's what you mean, but I have been here many years now.'

'What brought you here?'

'Work. Wife. We spent time in Edinburgh before moving down here. People say I have a soft accent now.'

'Which people?'

Miles stared at the man, 'Just people.'

Veins pulsed along the hands of the driver, 'I used to walk around here too, and up in the hills.'

'Really?'

'Of course. I wasn't always this old,' he said with a smile and a wink. 'Bagged a few Munros back in the day. Wonderful days away from the world.'

'Oh, serious walking.'

'Yes,' grinned the driver. 'And you?'

'I just walk around. I walk the roads and the woodland. I tackled the Cheviots with my wife a few times.'

It just slipped out.

Now Miles caught the driver's eyes peering at his hands.

'And you don't wear a wedding band,' said the driver.

'Not all men do. I don't need a ring to remind myself.' The attempt at flippancy had been camouflaged by irritability and Miles cursed himself for falling into such a conversation. He wanted the driver to pay full attention to the road. The rain battered down onto the motorcar and the noise of it filled the void left in the wake of Miles' comment. He no longer felt like talking, and turned to his misted window until the driver felt the need for further conversation. Miles wondered if the old man was one of the few people who could handle a nice, long, healthy silence.

'So,' said the driver, 'Other than walks in the rain, what do you do?'

The question Miles loathed.

'Nothing. You?' An automated response within a sigh.

The driver laughed at the speed of the response, 'At my age? As much as you, by the sounds of it. Not much going on these days. Such is life.'

'Hmm.'

Miles was not concerned by this man's life and declined to follow through.

The driver looked ahead and Miles took the opportunity to study the features of this man who may, or may not, be at Death's door. The pale weathered skin of the face hung loose and the whiskers that threatened to bring colour to his complexion certainly suggested a man at home without a woman. His eyes were shrunken and the whites had yellowed with age and Miles wondered how far down the road the man could see. Through the mist and the rain, it was difficult for Miles to see the road ahead.

'Is there anything you would like to do?' The driver was persistent.

Many things.

Curl into a ball, Miles had thought then. He considered the question he could never answer, but he did not want to seem anymore pathetic than he already did. He really wanted an answer to come to him. The motorcar seemed to veer onto the middle of the road as Miles considered his response.

'Sorry,' said the driver. 'I'm curious, that's all. Nosey, as my wife used to say. Just tell me if I'm talking too much. I tend to talk mostly to myself these days and I rarely bore myself.'

The driver allowed no room for Miles to interject and the memory took control and he continued talking.

'A man I knew once, a long time ago, decided he didn't want to do anything with his life. This was just after the war, you see, the 'Great' one. It was difficult, as I'm sure you know. More so than now. Anyway, he had decided that if no-one was going to give him a job, he wouldn't have his time wasted trying to find one, as if the world didn't deserve his talents.' The old man shifted in his seat as he dealt with a sudden twinge of pain somewhere. 'Now, what these talents were, nobody knew, because he had never really worked anyway and claimed not to have any real idea of what he wanted to do with himself, or what he had to offer. He just knew what he didn't want to do, which was most things. He didn't want to be a part of the problem. Didn't want to contribute negatively to the world, to society. To him, most actions in life had a negative impact. His time in France hadn't helped. He had been one of the more reluctant types over there. He felt cheated out of those years.'

'And what happened to him?' Miles had feigned interest.

'Very little, but at least he wasn't part of the problem.' And the driver had imparted a little tirade of wisdom that was lost on Miles, who felt none the wiser. 'I suspect that you just don't know what the problem is,' added the driver.

'Enlighten me.'

'Oh I wish I knew myself.'

You knew what the problem was.

Miles decided that the old man was not going to look at the road in a hurry, and looked to the road himself in the hope of prompting him. A car hurtled by in the opposite direction and failed to distract the old man. Miles then looked at the years of life behind the driver's aged eyes. Yellow. Tired. Full. Miles turned away reluctantly. He was becoming aware of his proximity to home. To the house.

'This is me,' he said, pointing ahead, 'Just that break in the trees on the left there.'

The trees lining the road had become momentarily and partially obscured by a stone wall that was only just taller than a man and which led to the entrance of a driveway. The wall was as grey as the day itself and difficult to determine.

'Home and dry, as it were,' said the driver as he applied the brakes.

The motorcar settled at the base of the driveway; two dirt tracks disappearing amongst the branches and the rain, leading to a glimpse of a grey building.

'Nice house. Nice home,' said the driver, though he could barely see it. 'You're fortunate to have such a home. It looks very grand.'

You thanked him quickly.

'Thank you for the lift,' said Miles as he stepped out, a struggle in his wet clothing, and he was thankful to be back in the rain once again. 'Okay,' he said, 'Take care, then.' He waited for a response that did not come and looked down at the wet patch he had left on the passenger seat. The driver was also staring at the patch. Miles slammed the door harder than he had intended, but as hard as he had wanted.

Moving up the muddied driveway, Miles glanced back as the car just sat there, its occupant once again vague through the misted window. Miles turned away and walked on, listening for the sound of the car pulling away. The rain and the mist and the turn in the driveway obscured the memory of the vehicle and its occupant. Miles trudged along the dirt-puddle track lined by leafless trees and he was weary enough to appreciate the house that came into view; a former manse that had been his on a platter. It was no longer home to him, but it was where he lived and there was no better place he could think of going to right now.

There was now an overwhelming sense of morbid achievement creeping into his thoughts. He had actually tried it. He had actually given up. He felt some of what he thought she must have felt. Standing in the rain outside the broad front door of the house, wishing he could just stop, Miles nevertheless felt satisfaction that he had made it to the bridge this time. A semblance of joy at a certain degree of success, he considered that there would always be a next time.

He took the large brass house key from his wet trouser pocket that had, unlike his wallet, survived the river. He struggled with the lock for a moment until he realised he was turning the key the wrong way. Despite countless occasions entering and leaving the house, this was the first time since moving into the place that he had turned it the wrong way. He blamed the river as he entered the hallway, closing the door on the world behind him. He became relaxed in the knowledge that he knew how this was all going to end.

Four

Mrs Allsop indicated and applied the brakes as the old man raised a finger.

'Here,' he said, pointing ahead at the gap in the trees. 'This is us.'

'I know,' said Mrs Allsop as she exhaled.

Most days she would tolerate his behaviour, but her tolerance for daft old men was in short supply today. She had delivered him back safe and sound once again, to his home amongst the trees, away from the world. The tyres churned-up the dirt driveway and she cursed first gear before bringing the car to rest outside the front door. She tugged at the handbrake with both hands, turned the engine off, and felt the familiar sadness upon arrival, at what the house should have been. The old man felt it too, every day, and they both looked out at the large windows that framed the main door. All was dark within.

Mrs Allsop got out of the car and dashed around to the passenger-side. Years of joyous smoking had maintained her wiry frame and made such swift movement still possible. She opened the door for the old man and he looked up at her.

'You're getting wet,' he said, unhelpfully.

'I am aware,' responded Mrs Allsop, gesturing to hurry him along.

As always, Miles huffed and puffed as he was helped from his seat. Mrs Allsop led him to the porch and then used her own emergency key to enter the house before guiding him in. Miles absentmindedly wiped his battered brogues on the faded welcome mat and shuffled inside as Mrs Allsop closed the door behind them.

After many slow, painful steps, Miles Morgan was seated in his chair amongst the dust and the stale air of the living room, waiting for Mrs Allsop to provide him with a cup of coffee and a lecture about taking his medication, as per the doctor's instruction. Sitting there alone, he surprised himself at how affected he was by his recollection of that bridge, that day, now many years passed. Never before had he remembered it quite that way; clearly, from such a perspective, outside looking in. It had been remarkably vivid and strikingly accurate, so far as he could recall. It felt accurate. Miles pondered whether the less he thought of his future, or the less future he had to think of, the clearer his past would become, whether memories could instigate yet more memories. He settled into his recliner and closed his eyes to his present and his future.

Five

Even with the thick wooden door closed behind him, he could still hear the rain.

He recalled himself dripping onto the faded and worn welcome mat of his vestibule and momentarily considered his fondness for the word, 'vestibule'.

Home again, home again.

Before continuing into the hallway of the grand old house, Miles kicked off his sodden shoes and peeled away his clinging clothes. He let them fall into a pile at his feet. In a house cleaned to the brink of madness, with nothing out of place or out of symmetry, the pile leaked onto the chequered tiles that separated the door from the hall and he watched the puddle spread towards his feet. He abandoned the clothes. Naked and cold, he stepped forward into the dim half-light of the hall, the largest of the large rooms, framed by four open doorways, a fifth closed, and a wide staircase making its own way up and around into yet more space above him. Space that was empty.

A waste of a home.

The Georgian manse had been another beginning, but would now remain a fading echo of a better time until someone else took it from his possession. Miles considered himself a blip in the existence of the place; some passing tragedy that got in the way of a happier home. There had been so many plans, but why do today when you can put off until tomorrow? Miles was now simply a caretaker who had little care.

A waste of a home. But it had been ours.

Under the high ceiling, he strolled naked by the large living room and the larger kitchen and ascended the carpeted stairs, taking them sedately, one at a time. The upstairs was in direct proportion to the down, yet much darker due to only one door being open, and this door allowed the poor excuse for daylight to enter. Miles entered the open doorway and into one of only two rooms he still used up there. He took a hot shower, and remained under it until the water ran cold, which was not long. To hell with the boiler, he had thought at the time.

He stood drying himself and fought the desire to collapse on the spot. A mixture of misery and pride came over him. He was hardly alive. Failure seemed beside the point; the intention had been there. Everything now felt heightened, even down to the sound of the towel rubbing by his ear. This is what it is to be dry, he had thought. Despite his pride, he did not wipe away the steam that now covered the mirror above the sink, as he did not wish to face himself just yet, to see himself looking back, should he judge himself. He knew his face well and did not require a reminder. A sense of liberation came from something as simple as not confirming his own appearance, despite the fact that he was going nowhere. A reflection is always too considered to be truly reflective.

In the living room, he sat in his reclining chair which faced the dark recess of the unlit fireplace, wrapped within his old dressing gown. In the dim light of the fading day, and surrounded by furnishings that were gestures of civility others had chosen before him, Miles listened as the rain battered against the tall window panes. His gown was too small for him. It failed to cover him enough to be warm and relaxed, but he would not admit that his life had become such that he had to make any special effort to replace it. The fact that such a thought was even occurring to him now, on a day like today, meant that something had to change. He felt no right to even think of such trivial matters.

The river water swirled in his head and finally emerged from his eyes. He managed to get it all out and pressed his eyes hard to dry them. The pressure of his palms blurred his vision and blotches danced across the room, the furniture, the dusted ornaments. He stared at the rain on the windows until his vision became clear once more. He was tired. Too tired to be upset, as he had been too tired to not throw himself from a bridge on a Tuesday afternoon. He contemplated the fact that he had reached a point in life where throwing himself from a bridge on a Tuesday afternoon had seemed like the most logical course of action.

He felt anger, inept in his gut, that he continued to function. He had ended it, but 'it' kept going, dragging him along without any say-so. Familiarity was breeding contempt as he sat there, yet the underlying sense of pride remained at his success of sheer will. Feelings of contempt faded to no feeling at all. He had done it. He had gone right ahead and given up, thrown in the towel, thrown himself to nothing. He was not meant to be lazing on a reclining chair. And yet here he was.

This day was done, and he would just sit in the chair and wait it out until the following day. Then the next. He wondered at how he could possibly get through a normal day again. Something had to change, something had to collapse under the weight of it all. Even numbness is a sensation and it crept up on him and he liked it.

He fell asleep. Amongst the many splintered dreams, he dreamt of a day that seemed more than just a few weeks ago, when he had been sat slumped in the very same recliner, the room illuminated only by the meagre light of the radio set above the hearth. He had been staring at the light of the dial for some time as the Home Service filled the room, but had not listened to it with any interest, mainly because he had drunk too much that evening.

Sarah had gone to bed before he had returned from the city and its bars. Bed is where she had spent most of those recent days. He had managed to coax her out of the bedroom at lunchtime, and she had sat with her head hung low, unresponsive, until the phone call. Sarah had exhausted his patience and Miles had agreed to a night off from his marriage, meeting his friend for those drinks he had promised himself. He had not found what he had been looking for that evening. The ache forming in the joints of his fist had seen to that. Miles wished he could take his mind off of Sarah's behaviour, all of it, and denial seemed to be the only route that remained.

The radio light twitched as Miles sat motionless, tensing within as he pretended not to have heard the noise above. But it came again. It confused him at first, but he knew it was from outside the room and not from the radio set. Definitely not the radio set. It was not meant to be there. The increasing heart rate in his chest indicated that it was not a good sound and he knew Sarah had been upstairs for some time.

And there it was again; a distant thud.

Miles gently pushed his legs against the recliner's footrest until the chair returned to its upright position. Careful to avoid making a sound, he lifted himself out of the chair and stood still for a moment. He moved to the fireplace and muted the radio with a turn of the dial.

Was I even breathing?

He caught himself staring at the pattern of the carpet, muddled thoughts and fears racing through his head, too fast to catch ahold of.

It was a definite sound.

He made his way across the room and opened the door tentatively, reluctantly, unsure if he had heard the sound again or if that had been his opening of the door. The radio light still shone.

Miles stepped into the darkness of the hallway and switched on the light, as if that would somehow make everything better. He stared at the lampshade hanging low from the ceiling. There was no denying it now, he had thought. The sound was coming from upstairs. Directly above. It was coming from their bedroom.

He made his slow way up the staircase, into a greater darkness, not looking anywhere but at each carpeted step, as if the irregular, offending sound would guide him.

It then became a muted shuffling sound. Each time he heard the noise it would create a sick sensation in his stomach. It was a sound out of place. If it was coming from their room, why wasn't she doing something about it?, he had thought. Why wasn't she reacting? Why is there noise? It is her, isn't it? The only explanation lay on the other side of their door.

Miles stared at the thin line of light that framed the closed door as he stood at the edge of the landing, debating with himself whether he should move. He found himself shuffling forward. He never felt so alone as this. He no longer felt drunk. He felt like a little boy.

Upon reaching the door, Miles realised the sound was the door itself. At least, something against the door, striking it intermittently. On the other side. A slight shuffle, something sliding against the wood, inches from him. He grabbed the door knob knowing that he was about to cross a threshold that would change the world. All that had been good about his life was behind that door, and it was no longer good.

He twisted and pushed. The door opened only a few inches, as if on some opposing spring. He persevered, peering through the narrow opening until he glimpsed the bare leg. Gently, with purpose and fear, Miles pushed against the body and edged the door open to put his head around. She lay on the floor. Not on the bed, but on the floor. She looked up at him, her nightdress crumpled around her, struggling to sit up as if some opposing weight rested on her chest. She was looking at him, but not, her eyes staring wide. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly but failed to make a sound. Her foot hit the door once again and Miles had to prevent himself from being shut out. He said her name, or thought he did, and felt like a fool for doing so. She did not seem to react in any way and continued to writhe, as if drowning in waters known only to her.

Miles considered his options.

After a length of time he would never recall, Miles squeezed into the room before Sarah's foot fell once again, slamming the door shut. Here they were together. Alone in the room. Alone together. He was not sure how long he had stood there staring, but he prompted himself to act. He managed to get his arms underneath hers and picked her up. Despite her petite frame, she felt heavy to Miles for the first time in their lives and he struggled. With effort, he managed to get her onto the bed, and was worried she may slide off of it. He did not know how the bed could help, but it seemed like the thing to do. As he did so, Miles saw the green glass of the gin bottle on the night stand next to the brown glass of the pill bottle the doctors had prescribed. Looking to her, he now saw the drunken, drugged look in her distant eyes and decided she could see him. He told her he was going to get help, or something like that; he could not recall. He did recall that he called her 'my love'. He then lied and told her she would be okay.

The focus of his practicality kicked in. Miles abandoned his wife as he leapt downstairs into the light of the hallway to the small table and the telephone that sat upon it. He had to ask for an ambulance and then describe what had happened. The operator asked what tablets Sarah had taken. He had not checked, but knew he could not enter that room again to find out, only to leave her alone once more. He decided to tell the operator that they were anti-depressants, and that he could never remember the name of them. A mental block.

The operator assured that the ambulance was on its way.

Assured, he stood at the bedroom doorway once more, staring down at his wife as she writhed slowly and quietly on the bed. Their bed. All he could do was sit down alongside her and hold her hand. It was all he could do, because he did not know what else to do.

Six

He had slept in his dressing gown and could not recall going to bed. He woke with the memory of her floating in his head. It seemed only a moment ago, yet weeks had since passed, and the river had failed to cleanse him. It had become more dream than memory.

Miles found himself in their double bed, fresh and alert, as his eyes opened to the off-white daylight assuring him that, yes, he was awake. He debated whether the water of the river was good for the mind, as he had not felt this clarity of thought so early in the day before. Not at any point of any day. This is what waking should feel like, he had thought at that time.

The patterned wallpaper, all the rage before the war, came into gradual focus. The pattern seemed somewhat different to him that day, but only because he had never taken the time to look at it before now. Both he and Sarah had decided it had to go when they first took possession of the property. They had agreed.

He stopped himself from turning to the clock that sat a few inches from his head. It did not concern him what the time was. Knowing would give him a defined perspective, it would give that period of the day its specific feel, and he would rather have a nagging doubt for as long as was possible. He supported himself on his elbow and looked out between the open curtains, out at the white sky and the bare branches.

A bonus day. One of too many.

He stood out of bed and took a closer look at the world. From the point-of-view of the outside world, Miles stood framed amidst reflections of trees and sky.

Other than being quiet and alone, the routine of recent days had been the morning coffee. Miles had reached the stage of his thirties when he began to look forward to caffeine more than alcohol. He shuffled down the staircase and into the large kitchen and noticed, as he always did, Sarah's cheap reproduction of Lautrec's The Bed; a reminder of a time elsewhere, a time when they could both face the world despite its dangers. A better time that was never appreciated at the time. He placed the filled kettle pot that had belonged to his in-laws onto the range that had also belonged to his in-laws.

He stared out through the kitchen window and examined the colourless sky as if expecting it to come loose at any moment. Unfortunately, not. Not today. Not in the way he hoped. It was one of those days when you could not even say that there was weather of any particular kind. The sky was blank and the temperature of little note. Today was Wednesday, he was quite sure of that, and Wednesday had never had much of a feel to it; like Sunday, but with the feeling that you should be doing something. Miles' position at the window threatened to remind him of Sarah at the very same window. That final day together. That day had been sunlit, and his view from across the room had been of her in the morning haze, her frame and her face now frayed by the harshness of the light. He recalled the image and it was as if the sun itself had been taking a photograph of her. But he decided not to think about that right now.

The kettle whistled at Miles from the stove.

As he usually sat in the kitchen with his morning coffee, he took it with him into the scruff of yard outside the side door. He stared into the thick of leafless trees that surrounded the property. He looked to the stone outbuilding that was intended as a woodshed, and to the exposed rear of the motorcar that jutted from it. He considered scrapping the vehicle. He had no further use for it and doubted anybody would want it in its current state. He then ignored his own thoughts as familiar aches and pains distracted him.

Barefooted, legs wide enough apart to appear somewhat proud amongst the scrub, the dirt and the briar, he swallowed the coffee that had got him out of bed in the first place. He looked down at his bare feet, the only part of his body he had ever been content with, and scrunched his toes into the earth; it did not hurt. He did not feel anything. Sarah came to mind without warning once again, and he acknowledged to himself that he had yet to make it past his morning coffee without thinking of her. He could picture her face as if he had created it himself, but he could no longer hear her voice in his head. Since she had gone, he was incapable of recalling her voice; the timbre or tone. It was one he had heard so often and that made no sense to him.

A crunching sound came from within the trees, across the yard from where he stood. It was not loud, but it was not imagined. He peered ahead and tried to focus on the lean trees and the darkness between them. It could have been any kind of animal, or bird perhaps, but he had never been made more aware of the woods. The renewed sense of calm that was that morning's pervasive feeling prevented him from caring too much about it and he knew from previous experience that anything that threatened to be exciting would end up being nothing more than a disappointment.

It was a deer, remember? The deer always linger nearby.

'Oh yes,' Miles replied to himself out loud as he kept his eyes on the trees. 'I'd forgotten all about the deer.'

The memory of that day stalled as it threatened to fade.

Mrs Allsop will be here with my coffee any moment now.

The Miles of old age now struggled with his recollection, looking about as if standing beside himself, a generation dividing two halves of a whole person. Alongside the memory of what he recalled of himself, the old man took in the scene and surveyed its accuracy. He turned and looked up at the house, which was the same as it ever was.

It is a nice home.

'It's just a house.'

For the first time since he could remember, Miles Morgan looked himself in the eye.

'Leave me be,' said the younger of the two.

I was here first. That day was cold, I remember that much.

'If you say so.'

I do say so. I still can't remember her voice, but it's her words that I need.

The old man was almost pleading to himself.

Put your mind to it. It will come.

'You've had your whole life to remember.'

I see more of the past than the present.

'She's long gone.You should admit that.'

No. She is there by the window, just as she was.

Sarah, as she had been, stood before the kitchen window, her back to her husband, and he now sat at the table across the room from her. As Miles had recalled on so many occasions, she turned to him as she mouthed absent words. That was the final memory of her that had sustained him from his age then to his age now. That is, the memory where she was not in the midst of her death, sad and beautiful. Whatever she was saying had been a confession. He remembered that at the very least.

The words he could not remember.

I need to know what was said. There is nothing else that I need to know. Perhaps I can remember.

'It is too long ago. None of it matters and you are an old fool.'

I am not here to argue with myself.

'Well, there's no arguing with that.'

The old man saw himself as he had been that day and he loathed what he saw.

Seven

The old man surprised himself as he recalled the rest of the day he had thought was lost to him. He remembered a favoured haunt of quiet reflection, somewhere he had frequented so as to mingle without having to be with others, save for the routine nod and mumbled greeting of the starched doorman, all ironed creases and tartan trousers, who welcomed him warmly through the entrance into the gallery.

There were many galleries in the city, just as there were many floors to this particular one, and Miles had always felt that the first floor was exhausting enough for one day. Ambling around and succumbing to the Rembrandts, Rimbauds and the ones he had never heard of had always taken it out of him. He used to read all the descriptions in an attempt to get his free admission's worth, but he rarely took it in, finding himself scanning the information to get to the end and then telling himself that he had read it.

He entered the expanse of the main gallery and surveyed the memory of the room that lay before him. It was an atmosphere of hushed quiet as others stared at works of passion that hung heavy on the rouge walls, faces of the dead and the imagined staring back, some avoiding their judgement and looking away.

One of my favourite haunts.

The room was a renaissance circuit framing a central stairwell, two small ante-rooms of spot-lit paintings, and a ladies' toilet. The artworks outnumbered those people currently appreciating them, and on that day, Miles had wondered if anyone else thought the piano he could hear was out of place. There had never been music before or since, and he was unable to determine if it was being piped into the room or not. In contrast to the music recordings of the time, the sound seemed clear, ambient yet jarring. The tuneless lack of melody tinkled as if the keys were being molested by some passer-by. Miles did not mind it. It was different. Different was good that day.

'Rather tranquil,' he said to himself. 'Clears the mind.'

The piano momentarily found a rhythm.

'There shouldn't be music here.'

Let's take a look around.

The blind leading the blind, thought the younger Miles, unsure as to why. He was in no hurry and fully intended to work the room at his usual pace, because this was his place and nobody else's. He would not be rushed. Not by anyone. Even himself. For the first time, it occurred to him to look at the paintings up close, to examine the finer detail; the lines and the smudges that, at a distance, became a face on a hillside, or a tree of green, or Jesus Christ.

I should've been a painter.

Stepping back, his gaze lingered on a painting of the severed head of John The Baptist with his tongue literally forked. Piano now ascended in scales in the distance and Miles was beginning to like it. It could actually be quite an inspired composition, he had thought. As it persisted, he found himself staring at his own reflection in the glass covering of the painting before him. Behind, one of the starched gallery attendants hushed a group of tourists who seemed more interested in the ladies' toilet. Miles moved on around the room at his own pace. As the group of tourists found their way between him and the painting he had been aiming for, Miles moved across the room, and his gaze fell upon the face of a bloated old lady. The description labelled an artist unfamiliar to Miles, an Italian, and the picture was dated mid-eighteenth century, Subject: Unknown.

She didn't exist. A creation of the artist for the purposes of practice, to produce. So lifelike. Seems a shame. Look into those eyes and you can see thoughts and dreams that never existed. A figment of the imagination. Forced into existence.

Miles looked away from the portrait and caught a glimpse of the end of a tanned grand piano further down the room, ornamental in its opulence. Facing it were four large red leather sofas arranged in a square for patrons to sit, and appreciate, in comfort. Miles walked towards the one directly opposite the piano to see the sublime genius who had been accompanying him during his visit. As he approached, he saw a bald head bobbing in-and-out of view, and something was not quite right. Miles sat down and realised what it was.

The pianist was running out of octaves, not that he was playing them.

Even ornamental pianos need tuning once in a while.

The bald tuner moved the wooden mute on the strings within the instrument's frame and there sat a tuning fork on the cushioned stool next to the metal tuning lever. For the first time in weeks, Miles smiled spontaneously. He looked around at the complete indifference of others, then returned his gaze. The final note had been tuned. The bald tuner sat down and produced some melancholy minor chords up and down the keyboard, taking his time about it.

Should've been a pianist.

The notes formed a melody and filled the room with a hopeful ascension, and Miles once again looked about for a reaction from any other human being he could find.

Nothing. Typical.

Everybody around him was motionless, lost in their stares of appreciation aimed at the art that surrounded them. The scene itself seemed like a painting for the sole appreciation of Miles. Sun shone in through a skylight and cast a warm, diffused light into the room. Particles of dust danced in the sunlight to the music and Miles was afraid to move should he disturb his private composition.

Hang it on a wall for hundreds of years, it would never seem the same as it does to me right now.

He did not even want to blink. The eyes of the paintings stared down at the motionless figures caught in those stares. Christ, in billowing robes of blue and red, looked down on a large man in a disposable poncho that no self-respecting local would ever wear. King Herod eyeballed the female art student who had been sketching his forlorn features and she now seemed hypnotised by him. Venetian courtiers looked down and discussed the bored security guard seated on his moulded chair of plastic as his belly spilled out over his obscured belt.

This was but a moment, but to Miles it felt like some pivot for his life, just as the bridge had done the previous day. As so many moments of those days had done. He was perfectly balanced right there and then. Any sudden movement would bring him back to life along with everyone else, and only then could they be potential encounters. But they would never be anything more. He felt he was meant to be alone, because nobody else moved. Nobody existed other than to hang still for him. He preferred them that way.

The sunlight faded and the piano flowed into ragtime honky-tonk. Miles turned to the bald tuner who was now looking directly at him, expressionless. People now moved between them and the tuner found the sprightly end of his indulgence. The lid came down swiftly but respectfully, and the tuner gathered his tools together. As he did so, a group of tourists were hushed yet again, and Miles knew that he was still alone.

*

Miles took himself away from the gallery into the delicate rain and walked across the stone square that led him into the neighbouring gardens of the city. Suffering art appreciation fatigue, he sat on a bench, the rain being light enough to do so. Below him on the lower tier of the gardens, a muted tractor tore up damaged turf and Miles stared without interest as bodies passed by him. Behind, the rhythm of trams rumbled along the thoroughfare of the city. The rain intensified, and he became aware that the cool breeze that had been blowing against his face had gone, blocked by somebody who was now addressing him. Miles looked upwards to an unwelcome, familiar face.

'What are you doing sitting in the rain? You're getting wet.'

I am aware.

As Miles stared into the face of a friend, he took a moment to withhold a response as he assessed his feelings of contempt and relief at seeing the man known to him as Kent. Following years of friendship, of suspicions and doubts, the relationship between the two men had limped along of late, both men ignoring the unspoken acknowledgement that it had already witnessed its greatest days. Kent was, and always had been, a good-time guy. Popular to all in any given social situation, his shallow nature entertained well in small doses, and like any disaster, he was fascinating to observe. Miles appreciated the thankful differences that existed between them. Like all such people, Kent drifted through life unscathed by reality and concern and the problems of others. Until recently. Miles had always been disgusted by his own underlying envy of the man.

Kent stood tall under his umbrella, sheltered as always, 'You're still alive, then,' he said. 'You should answer your telephone. People are concerned about you.'

While Kent told him off, Miles felt the familiar wave of heat flush his body as he raged at the veneer of care.

You could always have come over, Miles had thought of saying, not that he had answered his door during that time. 'How are you?' was all he could muster.

Kent stared at Miles for a moment before answering, 'I'm fine. Returning this suit.' Miles noted the bloated carrier bag in Kent's right hand. Kent spent half his life returning clothes and the other half wearing them impeccably. 'What are you doing here?' asked Kent.

'Nothing,' Miles said.

'Well, you picked quite a day for it.' Kent looked around himself in search of conversation, 'Look, I just have to return this and then I'm meeting Alice. For drinks.'

'Alice?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Why not? She needs somebody to talk to, Miles, and you don't answer your telephone or your door.'

'And I suppose you are her shoulder to cry on, yes?'

Kent considered the direction of their conversation for a moment. 'You should join us,' he said as he shuffled slightly on the spot.

'You asking?'

'She would want me to ask. Come on, get up.'

As much as Miles felt uncomfortable being social at a time when he felt obliged to grief, he wanted nothing more than to have a drink and the others that it would lead to. He wanted to get into such a state as to confess all to his friend, to be allowed to wallow out loud and put a voice to his despair. However, this would be pointless with Kent, who recoiled at emotion of any depth and would dismiss problems with an offer of another drink, then another, and postpone the discussion until he was safely out of range. This is what Miles had always grudgingly admired; Kent's ability to see everything simply and to view life as an enterprise lacking any lasting consequence. But that needed to be based on a foundation of enlightenment, not selfishness and fear, Miles had always assumed. In Miles' mind, Kent, though by no means a stupid man, drifted through life as easily as one does when all around is awe-inspiring rather than questionable. Miles' sense of superiority was what he also suspected made him inferior to Kent. Kent was the person people actually wanted to be around.

Having returned a suit not dissimilar to the one Kent already wore, and having witnessed his friend fail to charm a sales woman's fading spirit, the two men braved sheet rain along a narrow cobbled street lined with niche shops until reaching steps that led down into one of the city's many basement bars. Conversation had so far been cursory; one of the men busy cursing the weather, the other relishing it. Soaked through, they descended the stone steps and entered the dimness of the peaceful bar.

This particular bar was new to Miles, yet familiar with its odour of spilt, stale alcohol and muted candlelight, the wooded interior homey and inviting on a day like today. Across the stone floor, the two men followed a direct line to the bar itself where Kent ordered two ales, assuming correctly. The barmaid appeared almost happy to serve Kent, if only to avoid the stare of the old accountant who sat deflated on a barstool at the far end. A brass plaque that read, 'Jim's Spot' was affixed to the stone wall behind the gentleman as he supped and slouched, drinking in the young barmaid. The barmaid tolerated this because she had to, because Jim spent lots of money in the place, and because she was a little drunk herself.

As the pints were pulled, both Miles and Kent stared at Jim.

'You know him?' asked Miles.

'I think I would remember such a fellow,' said Kent, unsure.

Drinks in hand, Kent and Miles positioned themselves around a small circular table by the window directly opposite the bar, as this was where Kent wished to be seated. The view from the basement window was of a wall of stone.

Before memory would become unreliable shifting flashback, the two men toasted their own health and conquered the first of many drinks. The initial conversation that took place was as polite as each could manage and of little note. Miles knew Kent was angry with him, if only because he had not been insulted by him yet. Kent indulged Miles' routine questions and skirted around tales of his world of accounting and management. His world trickled out in reluctant conversations regarding his new television set, relationship doubts, drinking adventures with others Miles did not know. And once more, Miles came to terms with the fact that he no longer liked this man, regardless of the years that they had shared. All relationships have a limited life span, he had thought. Miles knew from experience that he sat across from somebody who would not be there for him when needed, and who was only available when fun was to be had. More importantly, he was a man who could no longer be trusted. But neither man had reached an obvious point where the relationship could or should be severed, despite recent efforts. As acquaintances become friends through intensity and frequency of contact, so too will such friendship diminish once too much time has passed without that contact. It had been many weeks since they had sat opposite each other over a drink during which too much had happened, and Miles suspected they were both learning to live without one another with ease.

Don't trust him.

Kent fell too easily within the comfortable confines of prejudices that Miles had fostered over time. One previous, frustrated occasion some weeks ago, Miles had attempted to address certain suspicions regarding his friend. Miles' attempt had been met with, 'Oh God. Nothing serious, please,' accompanied by a panicked expression on Kent's face. Yet, Kent's fear was masked by the self-belief he had cultivated over years of disregarding the very same world that he embraced.

'If there was anyone I ever felt even remotely intimidated by,' Kent had once proclaimed, 'I simply made a point of getting to know them. Flaws and insecurities surface soon enough.'

As unwilling as ever to indulge in serious conversation that was to his taste, Miles now attempted to tap into Kent's sense of curiosity by skirting around the issue of rivers and bridges and dark contemplations. As more people entered the bar, Kent 'uh-huh-ed' at appropriate junctures while glancing around and behind Miles. Miles was used to this, and simply talked to himself about cold waters. Kent stared at the barmaid whom he had unknowingly failed to charm and Miles felt compelled to address matters.

'How's Catherine?'

'Hmm?' Kent replied irritably, still attentive to the barmaid.

'How's your wife?'

'She is bored. Hates her job. Hates me now, too, thanks to you. She asks about you. What you said. Blah blah.'

'That's a shame. About the job, I mean.'

'Such is life. The woman is rarely content.' Kent finally turned his attention to Miles.

'You've been married a while now,' said Miles.

'Yes we have.'

'I am sure you will persuade her to come around.'

'I have no desire to.'

'And what about Alice?'

'She'll be here any time now.'

'Is she angry? Upset?' Miles felt he was almost interrogating Kent, but it was his only method of conversing without talking about himself. As ever, he was fascinated by the man opposite.

'She's a woman,' said Kent. 'She's grieving and she still considers you family, so let's leave it at that. Have another drink.'

This was Kent's perfect scenario. He could never tolerate one-on-one's for any great length of time and would always try to involve a third party, someone he at least knew well, someone who would be there to prop him up. Even if pre-arranged, Kent would rarely mention he had invited another until they actually appeared. Miles never really knew why he did this, but it was habit. Now Miles was that third party.

Miles downed the remainder of his ale, which went straight to his head as hoped. What followed became nothing more than blurred recollection and a pure personality at work.

The hours fell away and the bar became busy. Unfinished drinks gave way to empty glasses. Talk became conversation. Glances became stares. Light diminished and focus unfocused. Voices gradually raised in tandem with music and other voices, and talking became shouting. The light outside succumbed to amber glows within. Civility gave way to versions of honesty and confession. Emotions and frustrations festered. An old man looked on at the recollection of himself who drank and he savoured the mess he was making of himself.

Kent's latest prop, Alice, arrived at some juncture in the evening and was as nervous as she was relieved to see Miles. She sat herself next to Kent. She was petite and still pretty despite her melancholy. Miles always compared her favourably to Sarah, but she had the kind of face that offered a candid glimpse of how she would look in her old age. Her face would fill, would continue closing-in on itself over time, but the sparkle of her eyes would continue to illuminate her older face. Dressed in a delicate woollen v-neck and tweed skirt, simple and attractive, she was a female complement of Kent. She reminded Miles too much of Sarah at times and it pained him to appreciate her. Before long, Kent had Alice firmly entangled in his banter as he tried to steer her away from sad subjects and caring enquiries. Miles entertained himself with his surroundings.

In the hours they had spent there, the bar had gradually filled with the post-work crowd. Corporate men stood about and filled the bar with smoke and atmosphere while Miles sat scanning them, indulging in unfounded judgements. He did not realise Kent had been to the bar until he returned with yet more drinks, seating himself back down next to Alice, who had been paying more attention to her cigarette than to the world around her, not knowing what to say to Miles. They shared their grief in silence. Miles felt sorry for her, knowing that she would fall for the charms of Kent. He wondered if she wondered about Catherine.

Noise.

Close crowd.

Drunken deafness.

I need a drink.

As if standing at the bar, surrounded by whiskey voices, old Miles emerged through the maze of his drunken dreams to see himself as he had truly been, standing up from the table across from Kent and Alice.

So young.

He looked on as he recalled abandoning his companions without a word, pushing through the throng and heading out into the night.

The long train ride home had become a walk along empty country roads in the spotlight of a full moon. Cold and alone and far from the house, he had been content in his stupor. Each recollected fragment of his journey home meshed together within ever-shifting boundaries, but he defiantly recalled the bridge.

He saw a figure on the bridge. An old man. Himself.

Convinced of such unreliability of recollection, he indulged in the illusion. The moon shone down on the old man as he waited on the brow of the bridge, looking out over the edge. The younger Miles found himself alongside the old as the night clouds reflected on the dark waters below. Nothing was said and the journey back to the house was forgotten.

The following morning, Miles had woken at home on his sofa in the sunlight and shame of the day. Sitting up slowly into the harsh light, he closed his eyes momentarily to protect them as memories of the previous day evaporated. Opening them, he saw his hands in the bright sunlight. Hands of youth. An illusion. He was aware of a life already lived and now repeated.

You should see yourself. It is unpleasant. Disgusting.

'Leave me alone.'

I haven't thought of that day in such a long time. So many years. I thought I had forgotten.

Miles Morgan sat alone in a room in a house he had occupied throughout a long life. Both young and old, sharing a thought of what life should have been. The thought was shared in silence until the sunlight faded from the room.

Eight

So why did I up and leave without a word?

Before Mrs Allsop could emerge from the kitchen with his coffee and afternoon pills, the old man found himself recalling that basement bar once again, now somewhat detached as Kent ordered drinks from the young barmaid. Miles looked along the wooden bar to stare at the fellow who slouched at the very end of it; in 'Jim's Spot'. Jim did not seem to mind being stared at, as he himself was too preoccupied staring at the barmaid who was taking Kent's money. Miles followed Jim's gaze as the barmaid moved to the till, at which point he caught sight of his aged face staring out from the mirror behind the bar.

The face was old but the face was his. The one more familiar.

Who else did you expect?

Kent placed a cold, heavy pint glass into the wrinkled hand of the old man without any thought to the age difference that now existed between them.

'Let's sit over there,' said Kent, gesturing toward the table that stood vacant opposite the bar and the barmaid. Old Miles followed. He appreciated he was taking control of a half-remembered encounter and they sat down together once again.

Memories breed memories.

'Chink!' said Kent, subdued, bringing his pint up into view.

'To my good health,' said Miles, recalling their traditional toast.

'No, no, I insist. To mine,' replied Kent, relenting without a smile.

Their glasses met and the old man could almost taste the vivid memory of that first sip. After that sip, it was downhill as far as any appreciation of taste was concerned. Not that he could taste it now, just an adequate memory of taste.

Miles then looked across the room at the barmaid, who was currently the focus of Kent's attention, and conceded that she was worth such attention. The man known as Jim still sat defeated at the end of the bar on the stool that could barely cope under the strain of him, and it was then that Miles had his first doubt. He was not so familiar with this particular bar, but felt the sign of 'Jim's Spot' was familiar. He had a vision of that very sign, but not here, not in this place.

'Ah,' Miles said aloud. 'It was not here, but in that other place, the one with the giant clock, and I still hate Jim.'

It was the first time that Miles had thought about Fanning's Cocktail Bar since he had worked there just after the war. That had been down in London. He had not lasted more than six months or so, as the Jim in question had made it his nightly pleasure to abuse Miles in front of the other customers. Those customers were mainly the pin-striped accountants who swarmed around Jim every night. All of them had been approaching retirement, but the Jim character had long since been forced to take his due to ill-health, which he contributed to each evening in his corner of the bar, drinking the very same mid-range white wine, and becoming emotional as a consequence. Miles recalled him vividly due to the intensity of his hatred of the man. Jim was the reason Miles had needed a glass or two of something himself before showing for work each night. He was not a good barman, and this was noticed by Jim who, having retired as CEO of somewhere-or-other, felt he had a drunken duty to berate and humiliate Miles and all the underlings who did not wear skirts behind the bar. Due to the amount of money that Jim and his entourage of plum-faced sycophants had spent each night, there was little support from the management in the matter, and Miles simply endured.

Now, Miles found himself to be of a similar age to the Jim of that time.

If only I could meet him now.

It still brought a smile to Miles' face to recall the amount of drinks that were not ordered by Jim, but which were added to Jim's tab regardless during Miles' tenure as incompetent barman. Putting aside his stale grudges, Miles now considered how that little brass plaque at the end of the bar and the man next to it did not belong at the end of this particular bar.

'So, how have you been and what have you been doing with yourself? I see you have lost the sticks,' said Kent.

Sticks? Oh, yes, the walking sticks.

'I've been having a wonderful time, busy killing myself.' The old man suspected those words had been thought, not uttered. 'I gave up the sticks last week, but there is still pain. My walk is still not quite what it should be. Not yet.'

'Never mind,' said Kent.

'Yes.'

Miles took in the image of Kent as he had been at that time; the strong, lean features and slicked-back dark hair that would turn white overnight one day hence. Perched on the stool, Kent managed to maintain good posture that emphasised the broadness of his shoulders, the straightness of his long back. He would have been an imposing figure of a man had Miles not known him as well as he had. He understood what women saw in him, though, just as he suspected at what Sarah had seen in him.

'How's work?' was all Miles thought to say.

'Work is work. It fills my days and it fills them well. I have settled in as expected...' went Kent.

Miles was not all that sure of the original response to his question. It seemed that Kent was a recorded message within this memory, and as he rambled indistinctly, Miles looked over Kent's shoulder and around the pub to fully appreciate what was remembered.

'...secretary, nice though she is to look at, simply looks through me each morning. She'll do for now...' rambled Kent.

Miles was focusing on his own reflection in a brewery mirror that hung on a column next to the bar. It was disconcerting to see himself, in a place so social, an old man who no longer belonged, who was now out of time and out of place. He now saw how old a man he really was.

Kent continued talking regardless as Miles stood, walked across the floor to the bar, and sat next to Jim. Jim did not mind, as Jim was a dislocated memory. Miles got comfortable, leaned back against the bar, and turned to face the table and the friend he had just left alone. Kent was busy talking at the younger Miles who actually belonged.

Always strange to see oneself from a distance.

The old man sat for a moment as he acclimatised to his new perspective on events. Time fell away as he imagined the later crowds and atmosphere into being and found himself amongst the evening throng of the bar, by-passing the memories he was already familiar with. It had been so long since he had been surrounded by such life, and he now felt contented to sit back and watch. Music played in the background, and it was music he now enjoyed, and it played at a volume now comfortable to him.

He saw that Alice was seated at the table with a drunken Kent and his drunken self. Kent was talking and his drunken self looked vacant, looking over Kent at the crowds and then to Alice. The old man knew exactly how she would be as an old woman. She would always be petite of frame, though would swell in proportion as they all had done. Only Kent would retain his strength through the years, whereas Miles would recede with time.

He turned his attention to the barmaid, whose back was to him as it was to those who jostled at the bar. With imagination, it was the back of Sarah's head he now saw, no longer the barmaid's, and it was framed by a morning light rather than bottles and reflections. Her hair was up and Miles said her name out loud. She began to turn as the bleached light softened her profile and her downcast eyes came into view. She then stopped, as she always had. All he saw was a barmaid.

The old man wanted to be back at the table and amongst friends. Kent was talking to Alice in confidence as he returned to them.

'Don't mind me,' said Miles in the direction of Kent and, more so, to Alice.

'Apologies,' said Kent. 'You'd gone to the bar.'

'We were just talking,' said Alice. She seemed somewhat annoyed, but unlike Kent, resistant to such annoyance.

'I can go, if you like.' Miles was on fire. He felt the rush of blood throughout his face and head and wondered if the heat showed. Whenever he drank, dormant emotions surfaced.

'Calm yourself,' Kent said. 'You are wanted here, believe it or not. Besides, where else would you go, back to that empty house? Have some fun with us.' As always, Kent was in the process of obscuring the heart of the matter. 'We haven't seen you in weeks. Dear Alice here has been concerned.'

'I am a hard man to find,' said Miles.

'You never answer the door,' said Alice, more annoyed now than either companion. 'There are only so many times we can come by.'

'I wouldn't want either of you to go out of your way,' said Miles.

'Come come, children,' said Kent, alone in seeing reason. 'Let us not squabble. Miles, we have been out to see you on several occasions because you never answer your phone. We just assumed you wanted to be by yourself.'

Don't let him off with that.

''We', now, is it?' said Miles.

All three sat silently as words hung unspoken in the air between them.

'Everybody needs somebody at times like these,' said Alice. 'Even you.' She corrected herself with a shake of her head, 'Look, Miles, please. We are worried about you, that's all. You shouldn't be alone out there. It's not healthy. Let me come over sometime.'

'With him?' said Miles.

'With whoever you like. Or just myself.'

Miles recalled how sweet Alice was in those days.

'Do not concern yourself, Alice. The house was empty even before Sarah abandoned it.'

As Alice composed herself, Miles became aware of an accusative glare from Kent across the table as the two men shared an acquired distaste for one another. Instead of the slap he had hoped for, Miles felt Alice's hand rest upon his. She did not say anything and she did not look at him, but kept her hand where it was. Miles enjoyed the temporary exclusion of Kent.

Inevitably, Kent broke the shared silence, 'Don't keep your own company for too long, Miles.' He rose from his stool and let a hand trace along Alice's shoulders as he revisited the crowded bar and left them to it.

'What are you doing with him?' said Miles.

'He's a friend in need and he is what I need right now.'

'You don't know him in the way a woman needs to know such a man.'

'And how is that?'

'Well.'

'He is a kind man, Miles. What has happened between the two of you?'

'Alice, I have known him for many years. I simply know him too well.'

'Miles, I insist you let me come to the house. The more I see of you, the less I will see of him, if that makes it any easier.'

'It helps.' Miles looked away from Alice and saw Kent talking to the barmaid. 'I just needed time to myself. You must understand.'

'And you have had it, as have I. Let me share her with you again.'

He looked down at their hands and thought of his wife.

'What good will it do,' he said, 'You should not feel obliged, Alice.'

'But I do. She'll always be my sister as you will always be her husband.' Her hand slipped from his as she leant back with a mild smile, 'You don't get rid of me, Mr Morgan. We're family.'

Miles looked down instead of at Kent, 'And what does His Majesty have to say about it all.'

'He says he feels sorry for you.'

'That's nice of him.'

'And that he feels sorry for Sarah. That's all he says.' She took a considered breath, 'Miles, you don't blame yourself, do you?'

He raised his eyes to hers, 'Should I?'

'You shouldn't.'

'What exactly has Kent been saying?'

'It doesn't matter what he has been saying. He didn't know Sarah... how she was.'

No further words were spoken until Kent returned with three full glasses and took his place next to Alice.

'What did I miss?' he said as he raised his own glass.

There was a hesitation before Miles stood in silence and made his way through the throng.

He now found himself outside the bar in the freezing wind that accompanied the night. To his left, the street led down to the high street and to the gallery. He turned right. Feeling the ale more so in the freshness of the night air, he made his way along the wide commercial street and appreciated the moon that hung above illuminated street lamps. Taxis and trams and other drunks brought the city around him to life. He trusted himself to find his way back. He was familiar enough with the city he and Sarah had once called home and the central train station was not far away. The journey south would take at least an hour.

Time narrowed with the alcohol and he found himself shuffling along the narrow road that stretched for several miles between the local station and his house. The moon was bright and full and frozen above him, its light illuminating the individual clouds in the clear sky. He appreciated the walk this time. He had walked a great distance until the bridge and defiantly crossed it without stopping. The day's puddles at the side of the road were now freezing over.

In the memory, neither his injuries nor his feet ached. He did not feel his age. Despite the time it would have taken, he soon found himself at his door. He had opened that door countless times, but any recollection of such an act seemed contaminated by the sheer quantity of times that he had done so.

'Sarah!'

No response.

Sarah.

The dark of the house swallowed her name.

He made his way into the lounge and found his curtains undrawn, moonlight still illuminating his world. He could not recall laying on the sofa, but he must have done so, as that was where he would wake later that morning. In sunlight.

The old man looked down upon himself, and the day that followed emerged with the sun. He felt solemn within his recollections; a weakened shell.

You do realise you are merely an echo. You should see yourself. It is unpleasant. Disgusting.

As he looked at the man he had been, the man who now sat staring at his own hands, the old man considered how much of his memory had been truth. The essence was correct, he thought, and that would suffice.

What harsh light had been in the room faded and any truth wilted in its absence.

'And what is the point?' asked the young man of himself, still staring at his hands.

I remembered something forgotten.

'Congratulations. You must be pleased.'

You really are intensely unpleasant. It is important to remember the 'why', not simply the 'what'. I think I may have been misguided.

The old man took a seat next to himself.

'You think too much.'

Nevertheless, it was a mistake to disregard certain people.

'You're just a confused old man talking to yourself on a sofa you no longer have. Excuse me if I don't pay any attention to you.'

I am sorry to tell you this, but there is nobody else you will ever listen to.

'Alice seems to make a lot of sense. Perhaps you should listen to what she has to say.'

Perhaps.

*

That day faded with the years.

'Mrs Allsop...' hollered the old man.

From his recliner, he could hear the clatter in the kitchen through the gap in the living room door that she had left open. There was a draft on his neck.

'Mrs Allsop...'.

How long does it take to make a cup of coffee, woman?

He now twisted his neck and raised his voice at the door behind him:

'Alice!'

Nine

Alice Allsop had heard the old man's call and was annoyed at his unnecessary holler of impatience. It sometimes felt to her that she had not one but two husbands who needed her. She entered the lounge to be met with the familiar sight of him sitting upright in his reclining chair in an atmosphere of stillness. These are meant to be your reclining years too, she thought to herself. The room felt cold to her and she decided she would soon have to make a fire to prevent the old man's thin blood from freezing in his veins. She had been unsuccessful in her attempts to convince him to install an electric fire in the room. The central heating system had never been adequate for such a large house, particularly on cold days such as this. However, she reluctantly respected his desire to keep the house as it had been, even if that meant frozen excursions to the woodshed and coal bunker every few days. Miles himself was not capable.

'Ah, there you are,' shouted Miles, as Mrs Allsop appeared to place the tray on the long wooden coffee table that stood perfectly parallel to the sofa. The tray held two mugs of milky coffee, a plate with a single biscuit and a plastic medicine cup containing three pills. The biscuit would ease their passage.

'Yes. Here I am,' said Mrs Allsop, still irritated, as she moved the larger of the two mugs and the plate onto the smaller table to the right of the old man's chair. The mug was placed dutifully onto the wooden coaster. She then took her usual place in the middle of the vacant sofa within reach of her own mug. Without reaching for it, she sat back against the many cushions and sighed within herself.

'It's cold in here,' she said.

'Eh?'

'I said, it's cold.'

'Is it?'

'Yes, it is.'

'Oh.'

'I'll make a fire before I leave. Are you switched on?'

Miles raised a hand to his ear and tuned the hearing aid through a variety of whining frequencies, 'Speak,' he said.

'Can you hear me?'

'That's better.'

Mrs Allsop's gaze was now directed blankly at the cold fireplace opposite her, while Miles seemed to be staring out of the window. They both listened to the gusts of wind that pressed hard against the house and the glass of the windows.

'You'll have to take care driving home,' said Miles.

'It'll be fine.'

'I mean it.'

'I know you do. Don't worry so much.'

Mrs Allsop was weary. She was always weary these days. She leaned forward to detract from the silences between statements of the obvious and took her coffee, blowing on to it with narrow lips. Miles was no longer studying the outside world, and he looked upon her with fresh eyes that confirmed he had always known how she would look as an old lady. He noticed her hands cradling the mug as she stared vacantly. Pondering his next words, Miles grabbed his own mug. A look of contempt briefly filled his face as he glanced at the pills. He sat back and dunked his biscuit.

'How long have we known each other, Mrs Allsop?' he said.

'Long enough for you to use my first name.'

'Hmm.'

She knew he was trying to think of it, despite having just shouted it. Today, she decided not to remind him again; it would escape him as always. She loathed the formality that had come between them since she had become his help.

'But how long?' Miles persisted.

'How long?' she said, taking another sip of coffee. 'Well, I think... well, I met... what year are we in now? Oh, I don't know. Let's say sixty years, give or take, off and on.'

'A long time.'

'Yes. A long time that has passed quickly.' She turned to him now. It was rare to have a conversation. They spoke often in close proximity, but conversation was rare. 'Why do you ask?' she said.

'How is Kent?' Miles said, more of a statement than a question. He sipped as Mrs Allsop thought over it.

'Why?'

'I'm interested.'

'Do you care?'

'I am interested.'

'He's old, just like you and me.'

'Yes. Yes, I suppose he must be. Is he well?'

'As well as to be expected. Who is well at our age?' She nodded, 'Take your pills, old man.'

Her familiarity always delighted Miles. Reassured him. Her innate inability to tolerate anything less than brutal truth was a quality he had always admired and encouraged. He had always thought she was unsuited to Kent for this very reason, but they seemed to have been devoted to one another throughout the years. God knows what he would have been up to behind her back throughout their life together, but she was no fool. She was loyal. She was here because of loyalty. And a promise.

'I don't think I want any more of those pills,' Miles said to the distance.

'What do you mean? Don't be such a damn fool, man. You take your pills and make my life easy.'

'Wouldn't it be easier if you didn't have to come here every day? You have your life to live too.'

'Oh, don't you worry about me. I do have my life, yes, thank you very much. What has gotten into you today?'

'I just don't feel like taking the pills anymore. I am tired.'

'We are all tired. Pull yourself together.'

'Just don't feel obliged to clean up after me anymore.'

'Oh, dear Lord. One of those days. Whether you are living or dead, I will have to clean up after you. Stop being a silly sod and take your medicine.'

'You take your medicine.'

They shared a smile.

The room was dark now. Thick clouds had rolled overhead and complemented the wind that rattled a distant window.

'Sixty years,' said Miles. 'It is a lot of time. Much to remember.'

Mrs Allsop lost her smile. This was a subject that required careful navigation.

'I suppose we just remember the highlights,' she said.

'Can you trust yourself?' He returned the biscuit to the plate. 'I suspect many memories are not to be trusted.'

'We remember what we need to,' she said, in an attempt to preemptively diffuse what could be a painful conversation for them both.

Ask her.

Miles looked to her, 'I remember a sweater of yours.'

'You may have to narrow that down just a little. Recently?'

'No, I'm talking about sixty-odd years ago. I remember a bar... Kent was there too... and you wore a V-neck sweater.'

'Good Lord, a V-neck. The things you do remember.' Mrs Allsop withered within at her own comment. 'Do you remember what bar it was?' She sipped her coffee once more as she clearly recalled the time Miles was currently grasping at.

'All bars are pretty much the same after a certain amount of drink. It was a basement, I think. I just recall you holding my hand. Kent was in the process of sinking his claws into you.'

'Now now, be nice. Well, whatever it was, Miles, I wouldn't waste time over it. Such days are far behind us.' Her smile was as weak as her coffee. 'Take your medicine, you silly bugger.'

The old man deflated before her eyes and talked down into his mug, 'I am not entirely sure many people liked Miles Morgan very much.'

'Don't talk such nonsense. Where is all this coming from? Why worry about things you can't change? What is done is done. 'Ours is not to reason why...'' She abandoned her quotation and watched the old man staring into his mug. 'Well, you won't find any answers in there. This isn't good for you, Miles. You're thinking too much again. Have you finished your coffee? Would you like some water for your pills?'

'No.'

'Then take them. It'll be time for your evening pills before you know it.'

Miles reverted to staring out of the window. He could hear the wind in the trees and closed his eyes as it found its way down the chimney. Mrs Allsop was the only company he could keep so close, he thought. He pictured her young again when she had been young and sad. A fault of his. He opened his eyes to her.

'I've known you longer than my wife,' he said. He watched her as she absorbed the remark and sat physically unmoved by it.

'Well, you've known many people longer than your wife. But you still know her, Miles. I suppose.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Have you been thinking of her a lot lately?'

'I always think of her. What else is there to think about? You two were so close.'

'Yes, and I think of her. Every time I come here to you, I think of her. Every day. She was the warmth of this house.'

The image of Sarah at the kitchen window return to Miles. She stood tall and straight, with purpose, her back to him as always. Her palms rested on the edge of the Belfast sink and she hung her head down low. She seemed to be wearing a floral skirt of reds and pinks and a V-neck sweater that complemented the skirt. Her delicate appearance belied all that was within. No matter how hard he willed it, she would not turn around.

'It's a shame you couldn't find anyone else, Miles. Nobody expected you to remain alone,' said Mrs Allsop, in her tone that edged on the side of caring.

'It just wasn't necessary to find anybody else. It never occurred to me, frankly.'

'A life alone is a difficult one.'

'But I always had you,' said Miles, half-smiling.

'But that's not the same, Miles,' she said, unsmiling.

'I have kept my own company quite well enough. I know you and Kent have had a good life, but do not assume that what you have had is what everybody else wants to have.'

'You should want it. Or have wanted it.'

'I did. Matters were taken out of my hands. Wife. Children. My life is what it was.'

'You're doing it again.'

'What?'

'Thinking.'

'Hmm. Too much?'

'Of course.' Mrs Allsop smiled at him in the hope of concluding the conversation. 'I shall be popping to the shops soon, your cupboards are looking bare. Any special requests?'

'No. Just get what you think is required. It's a shame you can't remember.'

'Remember what?'

'Remember that bar.'

'I think I remember the place, just not the name. There were many bars in those days. How life has changed.'

'That husband of yours would remember. They were a second home to him. A refuge from responsibility. Poor Catherine.'

Mrs Allsop had been warming to Miles until then. As ever, he had managed to say something that made her dwell in discomfort. She stood with the tray that held her mug and resisted the urge to throw both in the general direction of the old man. Such actions of physical expression rarely helped.

'Poor Kent. He had no idea I would tame him so,' she said.

'You have been good for him.'

'Thank you, I think.'

'Strange, he seems to have been good for you too.'

Miles glanced up at her, hoping she would cover him in cold coffee.

'Take your medicine. You always get like this when you don't take your medicine.'

'So long as he treats you well.'

'I could've done a lot worse. And, may I add, you are in no position to criticise my choices, or his, for that matter. He's always asking after you, always curious how you are. You know, it wasn't easy for him either. For any of us. For you to just cut him off like that...' Mrs Allsop misplaced her sympathy and patience. 'Oh, never mind. I'm going to the shops now before I say any more. I'll make the fire when I get back.'

'I'll make it myself.'

'Oh no you will not. Remember what happened the last time? Just sit there and wallow. And when I come back, you had better be in a better mood. Now, take your medicine.' She disappeared from the room, muttering.

'Silly woman,' said Miles to the empty room, but the room knew he did not mean it. He emptied the pills into the palm of his hand, glanced at the door that Mrs Allsop had slammed shut, before stuffing the pills down between the seat cushion and the arm rest. He would find a more suitable place for them later.

Perhaps he would make the fire himself. He could not, in fact, recall what happened the last time he had tried to make it, but he knew he had done it countless times in his life and was perfectly capable. It would also successfully annoy Mrs Allsop to have her return to a blazing fire, and that was motivation enough.

Some distant words came from Mrs Allsop beyond the living room, the remainder of her irritation exhausted as she slammed the front door on her way out. Miles sat and listened to the car's ignition, the crushed gravel, and the ascending hum of Mrs Allsop's car as she sped away, absorbed by the raging wind.

What a woman. What a waste of a woman.

Miles stood with difficulty and shuffled across the floor to the large window to examine the outside world. Peering through his own reflection in the large glass pane, he took in the bare bush scrub and dense branches that intertwined, assessing the mood of the day. It seemed lighter outside than in, but the wind kept the shadows of branches on the move. He turned and looked at the room. The polished wood, the vacant glass cabinets that needed ornaments, books, a standing lamp frayed at the shade.

Such a space is an unfair reflection of a man.

He looked at his chair, the seat in which he had spent so much of his wasted time. The cushion of the seat was rising slowly from where he had sat on it, but then stopped prematurely, unable to return to its original shape. Miles retrieved one of his walking sticks that rested by the chair and went out into the cold hallway. Mrs Allsop had left the main light on in her anger, but he would not mention it this time. He ignored the staircase and the memory that was burrowing to the surface and simply kept on walking to the kitchen. Though Mrs Allsop had seen fit to turn the light off here, the daylight that came in through the kitchen window illuminated the space adequately. He stood in the doorway and tried to conjure the memory of Sarah at the kitchen window, but it failed to convince and he merely stood there.

There's somebody in the house.

No there isn't.

Yes there is.

Don't be ridiculous.

Upstairs.

You are imagining things. As always.

The old man stood rigid and contemplated the noise he now thought he had heard from up above him.

Old houses make noises. It was just the house settling and nothing more.

Go and see.

It's nothing.

With nothing better to do, the old man found himself at the base of the staircase that old age had made redundant some time ago. He grabbed the wooden handrail of the banister and took one step at a time, up and around to the upper landing. He was aware of the slight change in smell.

Damp somewhere.

He stopped at the top, resting against the balcony rail, leaning on his good hip.

Give me a minute.

Just take a minute. Get your breath.

Going back down will be harder.

I don't hear anything anymore.

He moved forward. The door of what had been their bedroom was closed. Miles denied all flashbacks any purchase and remained in the present as he reached the room.

This is ridiculous.

Just make sure you are back downstairs and sleeping in your chair by the time she gets back.

It's my house. I'll do what I please. Stop telling me what to do. I am old, but don't tell me what to do.

Open the bloody door.

I'll have to go back down all those stairs again. Maybe it's just dust I can smell.

Without drama, the old man turned the loose doorknob.

Almost empty. As it should be.

Indents in the cream carpet echoed the furniture that had been moved downstairs. All that remained was the large mahogany wardrobe with the mirrored panel on the left-hand door. And the bed, huge and permanent. Some time ago, Mrs Allsop had employed the help of her son and grandson to come and move what was necessary to the downstairs room that was now his single bedroom. The old man had wanted to remain in this upstairs room for as long as had been physically possible.

The room did not need all of its furniture, as Miles remembered it as it had been well enough. The most striking element of the room, which complemented its redundant appearance, was the coldness of the stale air. The old man's fingertips were already growing pale and numb and he was confident that the temperature outside would be a degree or so warmer than it was in. For no real reason other than to keep moving, he found himself walking over to the window and looked out. He turned away from the trees that swayed and perched himself on the narrow sill. A part of him never wanted to leave this spot, such was the feeling of closeness he felt to all that was missing. He could easily have recalled the room as it had been, but he chose to see it as it now was, finding comfort in the cold.

Leaning back against the window, he considered a familiar desire to evaporate, to burst into particles and float as dust throughout the house. He wanted nothing more than a happy disposition, but perhaps his melancholy, heightened by that room, was his happiness. At the very least, he had no fear of death. It was surprising to him to still feel this way, but he was as excited as he was apprehensive at the prospect of it. Despite all the aches and pains of his medicated longevity, he assumed he had yet to earn his death.

A coughing fit brought him back into the room and he covered his mouth reflexively, walking back out onto the landing. So many nights he had spent in that room, some with her, but he could only pinpoint the one exact memory, which he now walked away from. It had been a struggle up those stairs and they had taken the wind from his lungs. He grabbed hold of the handrail, looking down into the shadow of the stairwell. His slippers were slippery on the carpet.

Do it.

It would be a foolish way to go and would no doubt involving some degree of pain, unless he was very fortunate. He had never been particularly fortunate, so needed to take each step at a time with great consideration. There was, after all, no great rush. There was no urgent reclining that could not wait. He placed his left foot onto the first step but found himself paying more attention to the prominent veins on the back of the hand that grasped the rail. All he had to do was let it go and place unfounded trust in the strength of his legs. And a hip.

Now is not the time.

His hand remained on the rail and he moved down each step cautiously. He found himself at the turn of the staircase between the two flights and glanced at the upper landing as it disappeared from his view.

Did you hear something?

No. There is nothing to hear. It's an old house. Old houses make noise.

People make noise too.

There is nobody. Nobody lives here.

He gripped the handrail a little tighter and made his way down into the dim light of the hallway and stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He contemplated going to bed for a while, but day-sleeping in bed had always felt depressing in some way.

If the sun is up, I am up.

I am up.

From the kitchen came a raised voice. He recognised it as his own, but younger, and he could not make out any distinct words. Just by the tone he knew it was a raised voice. He adjusted the dial on the hearing aid, but the high-pitched tone it emitted hindered his ability to discern the echoes of past voices. He walked away from them, retreated back into the living room and back into his chair. Without much thought, the old man reclaimed his medicine from the side of the seat cushion and placed his hearing aid onto the table next to a stale biscuit.

With a remote control, the old man switched on the television that filled a corner of the room and it illuminated him with advertisements that were occasionally interrupted by programming. Miles loathed television, but it was his company to keep. He would always mute the advertisements, and often kept the set muted to indulge in the images and create much more satisfying narratives himself. Or, as often as not, he let it simply wash over him. The stillness of the house was sometimes overwhelming and his own company would occasionally become too much for him to bear. He considered the grey-haired man who currently filled the screen that was covered in phone numbers and clauses and he thought him youthful compared to his own self. It was another reason Miles loathed the set; it made him feel old and redundant.

I need a drink of something effective.

You are not allowed. It is bad for your health. Life is bad for your health. Recline. Do not excite yourself. Settle with the dust.

I need a drink and I mean to have one.

Miles located the mobile phone that Mrs Allsop had insisted he have for emergencies and, having perused an old phone book, ordered a taxi to come to the house and take him to the city. He could not recall the street name, or even the name of the bar, but he would direct the driver when they got there. He would remember.

Ten

Mrs Allsop became more concerned than usual upon her return when she realised that the door was locked and secure. She had to put down the shopping bags before entering. She never expected to walk into a lively home, but the stillness that greeted her was setting off a variety of alarm bells that were forever poised and expectant in her imagination. She stood still in the hall for a moment to dare the quiet to give away some semblance of life. Something mechanical whirred somewhere from inside the kitchen, which she dismissed as being the mechanism of the boiler, and the noise of it merely served to emphasise her solitude. She moved cautiously into the living room, pushing open the door to the flickering light of the muted television in the corner.

The kitchen was equally devoid of life, as were the numerous rooms, downstairs and up, that she put her head into, calling out one name. At the base of the stairs, she glanced at the opened phone book on a side table and then moved back to the vestibule to see for herself that the pair of slippers lay where his shoes should normally be at that hour. Wherever he's gone, there's little point in worrying just yet, she thought. He is old, but so am I.

She decided to give him the benefit of doubt that she herself sought from those who patronised her on a daily basis. A little life may do him the world of good, she thought.

Illuminated by the evening's gloaming, she stood in the open doorway of the house, looking out and hoping for the old man to emerge on the sodden driveway. The thickness of her cardigan offered little protection against the dampness of the air as she considered the swollen clouds above. She sighed into the mobile phone she carried for emergencies. It was something Kent had insisted she have.

'Should I come over?' her husband said.

'No.' she said. 'I don't know. Perhaps he's best left to his own devices. It's not my job to wrap him up in cotton wool, is it?'

'No, it isn't, but you know my feelings regarding this whole arrangement.'

'He needs somebody.'

'Look, I'll pop over and wait with you.'

'No. Please. Who knows what state he'll be in when he returns and I can't bare to see either of you getting upset.'

'No fear, dear, you know I'm long past that. But if you insist. Any idea where he may have gone? I could at least go look around, drive about for a bit.'

'No, no. Look, I'll hang about for a little while longer and see if he turns up. If not, I'll drive around myself then come home. No sense you getting dragged into this.'

'Bloody fool.'

'Hmm.'

'He needs that professional care that's coming to him. You have your own life to get on with. We have our own life to get on with. My God, somebody should be taking care of us!'

'That may be so,' she said, laughing a little. 'Anyway, let's not do this now. I'll see you soon.'

'Call me when he turns up.'

'Of course I will.'

'And remember, he could easily have left a note. Basic consideration and all. Don't feel obliged to wait all night.'

'I'll be home for dinner. You took the meat out of the freezer, didn't you?'

'Yes, dear.'

'Okay, I'll see you soon. Peel the potatoes if you need a job.'

'Hmm.'

'And don't go looking for him!'

'No, dear. Drive safe. Bye-bye.'

At their home, Kent hung on the line as he listened to his wife fumble until she located the button that then severed the connection between them. He then promptly disobeyed her instructions.

Eleven

The old man stood staring up at the columns of the gallery that had weathered more favourably over the years than he had. Locating the bar had been impossible in the taxi and neither driver nor passenger could understand each other very well. Instead, Miles had noticed the gallery of his memory and now stood in a familiar rain before it. He wore the Macintosh that had been gifted to him many years ago, and with the black umbrella he held aloft he was dry. He looked around and noted the park bench that still stood where it always had before retracing his steps as well as he could. As he did so, the Kent of recollection now walked alongside him, along the main thoroughfare of the city centre, through familiar side streets and over cobblestones. He watched as Kent descended stone steps to the bar he could not remember the name of. It did not look the same as he had remembered. The old man hesitated to follow. It would be manageable going down, but back up?

Kent looked directly at him from the doorway of the bar and spoke in silent words as he beckoned for him to follow. He smiled as he did so. The old man stood frail, clinging on to the wrought iron railing that kept him from falling. He wanted nothing more than to follow his friend and to descend into his past, unable to get back up again.

The iron railing was colder than the evening itself and he stood shivering while he contemplated the steps. This was his purpose and he had to make it worthwhile, as Mrs Allsop would no doubt consider such a venture folly, despite the consideration of the note he was quite sure he had left on the kitchen table. He had managed those stairs back at the house, so those before him now should be of no real threat. He was aware of his frailty but needed to ignore it so as to cope. He descended, almost leaving his own hesitant grasp behind on the railing. It took almost a minute to make it down, followed by another minute to get his breath back.

His hip ached as he entered through the door but it failed to distract him from the disappointment of what came into view. Though the layout seemed to tally with the vagueness of his recollections, the sight of colourless walls, colourless tables and chairs and the general offensive inoffensiveness of the tea shop he found himself in made him question himself and the world he lived in. He considered the possibility that he had not made it down the steps safely after all, and that he was suffering some delusional version of the afterlife. If so, it was wholly unacceptable.

'Cake' was written on a variety of chalkboards on the whitewashed stone walls and a young man in a black waistcoat and apron, himself equally devoid of colour and vitality, approached Miles and guided him expertly to the nearest, smallest table. The waiter spoke at speed, welcoming Miles and asking him how he was.

'I suppose I shall have tea,' said Miles, leaning his walking stick between the table and the wall next to it.

'We have a variety of teas, sir.'

The waiter plucked a laminated list of small words from a small block of wood in the centre of the small table and handed it to the old man.

'You'll see here that we have a selection of fruit teas, herbal teas, international teas, iced teas, and our more traditional teas... here.' The waiter pointed at words Miles assumed were there. 'There is also a selection of coffees on the back,' and the waiter turned the menu in the old man's hand to illustrate the point, 'and on the board over there we also have our specialty infusions. Our Infusion Of The Day is Pomegranate.' The waiter had stressed the word 'pomegranate', as if expecting the old man to become excited.

Miles stared at a distant board he could not read, 'I shall just have tea. Normal tea.'

'English Breakfast tea, certainly.'

'With milk. And three sugars.'

'Sugar is on the table, sir. Can I interest you in our selection of cakes, buns, assorted pastries?'

'I doubt it.'

The waiter slid away to the tea bar as Miles returned the menu to the small block of wood, placing it upside down. On purpose.

I could just as well have had Mrs Allsop make me some tea at home.

Pomegranate tea?

'Oh, be quiet!' said Miles aloud to himself, forgetting that there was a time and a place for such conversation. He looked to the tea bar to meet the eyes of the waiter who stared with judgement before returning to the infusion at hand, clattering china on china as a colleague accompanied him by striking the coffee machine repeatedly.

Miles looked around at what had been a nice, smoke-filled old pub all those years ago and was now a dysfunctional attempt at colonial reminiscence. Creams and whites dominated. Brickwork and wood had now been painted and unnecessary ceiling fans languidly fettered the numerous ferns and other assorted greenery that were dotted about. The sparse clientele around him were of a mixed selection of modern society and Miles was, as usual, the eldest present. Soothing orchestral strings trickled out of tiny black plastic speakers above the bar. Local overpriced art hung un-purchased around the room. In a passing moment of fairness, the old man conceded to himself that it was not a bad place to be, he had just hoped for something stimulating; a bit of life. Another memory had been redecorated.

The young waiter, not actually so young, but it was all relative to Miles, reappeared and transferred the stainless steel teapot-for-one, the stainless steel milk jug, and the white china cup and saucer with a quiet clatter from his small tray to the small table where the old man sat alone.

'Enjoy,' said the waiter. He stood for a moment, waiting for the 'Thank you' he was not to receive. Instead, the old man stared at the offerings before him with mild concern. The waiter decided it would be better to seek gratitude and civility elsewhere, if not to simply walk out of the door to the new life he had always promised himself. He walked away without further word, but not to the door.

Miles sat deflated, having prepared himself for something more toxic to mix with his medication. He eyeballed the distortion of himself in the dull finish of the teapot as he poured thin tea into the dainty cup. He knew it had not brewed for long enough, but poured anyway. He contemplated his prospective inability to make it back up to street level, up those steep stone steps. This led him to contemplate many inabilities. This led him to contemplate the end of his life which, as far as he was now concerned, had already occurred. He was out of place and had overstayed his welcome.

The final tea of my life? If only.

How many cups of tea had he consumed over the years? The tea comforted him and he resigned himself to his surroundings. The bar he had known had gone forever, taking with it any hope of nostalgia. Pieces of his puzzle would have to remain missing. He thought that perhaps his forgetfulness was for the best. The teacup he held pinched between his fingers held one mouthful of tea and he refilled it. He thought of the kind of drink he really wanted.

'Here's to you,' said Miles, raising the cup to his mouth and blowing the steam across towards Sarah.

The two of them sat looking at each other; one old with time ahead, one young and without. The old man felt no need to look around for witnesses to the scene, as he knew it for what it was. The living around him would be engrossed in their own worlds, just as he was in his. Instead, he simply studied the vividness before him, pleasantly surprised by the clarity of her. She was of a time when they were both happy people in the world, and she looked at him the way he had always wanted her to look at him. Her smile appeared like a piece of a puzzle finding its rightful place. Miles Morgan was overcome by a fleeting feeling of being precisely where he wanted to be.

He was aware that he was in complete control of this version of her and so became suspicious of himself. There were so many questions he would want answered by her, but any answer would now be from him and him alone.

It was her face that was vivid. Her clothes, her hair, all the changeable qualities of her were unremembered right now. He simply focused on her face. Her eyes seemed soft, just as they had been when they had first met. That initial encounter had been in a tea shop also, but one which, again, no longer existed in the world.

'What do you see?' asked Miles.

'You,' she said, assessing his features as if they were new to her. She smiled as she did so but the smile soon faded, revealing the face he remembered all too well, 'I see the man I never wanted you to become.'

Dead words.

'Go home,' she said. 'There is nothing here.'

Miles abandoned the table and left too much money on it to avoid further contact with the waiter, who looked like the type to try and help him back up the steps. Once outside and alone, he took each step with consideration, wishing each one would lead somewhere else. He thought of how letting go of the rail and leaning backwards would lead somewhere else.

Once at street level, Miles looked up from his shoes and noticed the sun had now been replaced by the moon, and that the city was illuminated by the lighting from shop interiors, lamplights, headlights and taillights. It was winter rush hour and those people with places to go were now on their hurried way there. As always, when surrounded by such activity, Miles revelled in his lack of purpose and he felt serene.

He released his grip on the iron railing to button himself up and saw nothing but a pointless vibrancy all around. He had waited all these years hoping for life to shake him awake and bring him back into step with the world around. But the years had abandoned him, and having only himself for company had done him no good at all. He decided he was too detached from all that surrounded him. Too dependent to escape. Too old to think ahead.

Shops and offices closed their doors and restaurants and bars filled with workers seeking refuge and recovery, spending much of what had been earned that day to help put it all behind them. Buses and trams dominated the streets that intersected the centre of the city, returning people to their homes and families, jostling with other vehicles that drifted between signals to get the people somewhere else. Music and conversation were confined to interiors as motors and horns filled the outside air, creating their own music to accompany those that cared to listen. That music reverberated from the grey buildings that stood old and tall as they funneled life between them. The cloudless sky allowed cold air to infuse the streets, and the breath of the people dissipated visibly into nothing. A clock of a tower of a department store counted down whatever time was left, causing scant alarm to those that would one day want nothing more than for those passing seconds to return. Life was occurring as it always had and dusk drew a close to another day that would be the last of many and the first of many. It would also be the last of few and the first of few for some; there was no prejudice. Destinies ignored each other as they passed beneath the clock, ignoring the lost time in search of other, more promising moments as another cold night took hold.

The old man had caught himself muttering as he moved slowly along one of the longer streets of the city. He had caught a glimpse of himself in some clothing store window display and thought it was somebody else talking to him. Nobody passing cared enough to pay any mind, and he knew he probably looked like the kind of person who would be expected to mutter to himself, but he stopped as he saw himself; he did not wish to be that person.

It was good for him to be out in the world once again. He could not help but imagine himself as an overgrown runaway child of sorts; loose in the big city with no real purpose but to be free and part of life. He had no family to worry or to scold him, but there was a small part of him that acknowledged the impending reprimand that took the form of Mrs Allsop.

He considered the upmarket boutiques and bars that made this street one of the busiest of the city. He considered how all would continue as such long after him, just as it had after her. He knew he had wasted much of his time dwelling on despair and wished he had been one of those who could simply glide, unconcerned by the things that cannot be changed. Life, after all, he had thought, was a slow death from the very beginning.

He felt some comfort in his numbness, his eagerness for the end of time. He had been waiting to die for many years now, and had not hoped or expected to live as long as he had. Nothing of any real note or purpose had happened in such a long time, and he now considered himself a forgotten soul, naively waiting for better days.

Having come so far, it would seem the final defeat of many to take his death into his own hands, but he regretted not having done so when his will had been stronger. What should have been a depressing thought gave him comfort. There was more past than future for him now. As for the present, that may as well be the past too.

Fully aware of his increasing lack of energy and mobility, the old man made the decision to return home to sit and wait it out. The outside world held nothing for him any longer, and so he would retreat. The only people, the only places, that held any interest or regard for him were no longer to be found here.

He raised his cane into the air, unaware of the passing cyclist he almost struck with it, and waited for a taxi cab to pull over. He had some thinking to do.

Twelve

The ceiling light lacked a shade and cast harsh shadows. Alice Allsop was reflected against the night in the black of the tall window pane. The room only felt smaller than the living room, and had once been a reception room of sorts. It was now occupied by cardboard boxes, old papers, black bin liners containing who-knows-what. The room was unheated and the biting cold of the air was doing nothing to comfort the old lady.

For quite some time that she had since lost track of, Alice Allsop had been browsing through the photographs and memories of others, and to which she had her own attachments. While waiting for Miles to return, she indulged herself as she had on previous occasions. She looked through the photograph albums that decayed slowly in a glass-fronted mahogany bookcase gathering dust in the corner.

She sat primly on an armless chair that had fallen out of fashion some decades before, sitting rigid and composed amongst the clutter of boxes that had old newspaper peaking out from them. The cold of the room was infusing her body as she felt her muscles retreat from it beneath her skin. She ignored the discomfort she was used to, but could not ignore the ever-present smell of the room that resulted from a lack of occupancy and attention. Smoking had done its best to destroy her sense of smell over the years, but she could smell the room. Despite her attraction to cleanliness and, preferably, spotlessness, the smell of rotting possessions always provided her some degree of comfort, a feeling of safety. She never knew why. She inhaled the staleness as if it were cigarette smoke in a confessional. As was her way throughout life, she accepted her own oddness as readily as she did the oddness of others. She made no attempt to tidy.

The album she held in her hand held photographs of holidays somewhere on the coast. The assumption was made that the coast was local, as hinted by the wind in the hair and the dullness of the sky. Alice Allsop always felt herself drawn to this image of the windswept couple, as they were visibly happy and unaware of their future. Judging by the angle and the closeness, they had taken the portrait themselves. Only the image of Sarah was acutely recognizable, as her image always aligned perfectly with any memory of her and the age she would always remain. Miles seemed a different person altogether. The colour of the photograph was not of the standard of the present day, and emphasised the aged quality all the more.

Every slight movement of her hand caused the album to creak with the decaying glue that had yellowed with time, becoming brittle. Alice closed it with consideration and returned it to the shelf. No longer could she be brought to tears by the contents of these albums, the room, or the house, but not because it made her any less regretful.

The doorbell interrupted her thoughts and she prepared herself to be more angry than relieved as she made her way to the door and opened it with her stern face on.

'Now don't be upset, dear.'

Having retained the broad build and above-average height of his younger days, Kent Allsop filled the frame of the grand doorway. As he awaited the inevitable reprimand from his beloved, he took a moment to remove his tweed cap and channeled fingers through his head of thick white hair as he looked down at the welcome mat. He looked back up to let the sparkle of his eyes deflate the incoming reprimand. In the years they had shared together, he had weathered better than Alice had, despite the years he had on her, and he revelled in his well-being. Stood in close proximity to her, he felt tall, and straightened his back slightly to emphasise his advantage over her, as if to remind both himself and his wife of his vitality, whether it remained or not. In this instance, it also acted as a means of bracing himself.

'I expressly said not to go looking for him and certainly not to come here,' said Alice.

'I know you did, but there was no harm in it,' said Kent, as he hesitated to enter, looking over her into the hallway. 'What if I'd found him, would you still be upset?' He smiled his denture smile before lowering his voice to a playful, conspiratorial tone, 'Has himself returned?'

Despite herself, Alice Allsop was pleased to see her man. She shook her head and agitated a smile.

'Well, you better come in then,' she said, with unconvincing irritability. 'But just for a moment. I can't have him turning up to find you here and you know that.'

Kent knew from her tone not to debate the issue further. He had wanted to check on her himself and see that she had not worked herself up into one of her states, and now he was content. Having a look about the old house was a bonus. She closed the door on the cold evening outside as Kent wiped his shoes on the mat.

'You shouldn't be out on a night like this, you'll catch your death,' she said.

'Always fussing. How are you? No word, I take it?'

'No. Oh, he'll turn up. Too much to ask for him not to.'

Kent gave her the stare that told her to rethink her characteristic uptightness.

'Oh, alright, I didn't mean it.' she said quickly. 'Though why you're sticking up for that man, I do not know.'

'Hush, woman, and let me into the warmth if you're that concerned about my imminent death! And I certainly wasn't defending him, but a man needs some independence, especially at our time of life. Have faith, dear. Have patience.'

The pair of them moved into the house proper and Kent looked around, noticing the light coming from the room to his right.

'So,what are you up to in here then?' he said, disappearing out of view.

Alice Allsop followed her husband back into the room of stale air and dust. Kent was peering and touching and generally having a peek at all that he should not, not that his wife was in any position to say anything about it.

'I was simply trying to tidy up a little. It's not often I get a chance to come in here. He doesn't like it.'

'Looks like a lost cause, old girl. What is all this, junk?'

'He seems to think so, though he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to get rid of any of it. Look, you'd better go. I'll be home soon enough.'

'Come on, dear, what is it?' he said, rummaging in one of the boxes, and extracted a picture in a frame of a young woman from many years before. After a moment, he simply returned the picture to the box. 'Hm. A shame... to have it all boxed up. It's a waste.'

'It's a fire hazard. Anyway, I hardly think having such things on display would do him any good, considering.'

'Perhaps. Anyway, it's his life, just don't disregard your own. Just a shame it's all hidden away.'

'I think these memories are too specific for him.'

'He told you that?'

'Not in so many words.' Alice Allsop folded her arms and stared at the room.

'When will you be home, my love?' Kent said, without turning to her.

'I'll give him one more hour.'

'Well,' Kent said with authority, 'He won't be our problem much longer.'

'Where is your compassion? This could easily have been you, or me.'

'Ha! Never. He made his own bed, let him die in it, alone.'

'Kent!'

'You don't owe him anything, you know.'

'Yes, well, not all of us can walk away as simply as others.'

Kent decided to step back over the line he had just crossed and he took his wife's glare as his cue to depart.

'I shall leave you to it then.' He turned and gave her a peck on the cheek as he made his way back out into the hallway. He returned his hat to his head and stood motionless.

Reaching for the light of the room, Alice Allsop wished for nothing more than to leave the house and Miles Morgan forever, right then and there, with her husband. Her contemplation indulged, she switched off the light as she pulled with some effort and strain at the large door until it closed. As she turned, it took her a moment to process the scene that greeted her in the hallway, and she visibly failed to hide her shock and surprise.

As expected, her husband was before her, his fingers still gripping the peak of his hat, yet he stood motionless. As not-so-expected, and half-obscured by her husband's broad frame, was Miles, equally motionless, on the welcome mat. He stood, old and stooped, staring at Kent. After an uncomfortable moment of pause, his eyes found Alice.

Thirteen

Alice Allsop poured tea into the mug that sat before Miles. In silence, she moved to the opposite end of the kitchen table to do the same for her husband. She then took her place between them. She put the teapot down in the centre of the table before pouring her own milk. She was in no mood to serve any longer. It had been a long day and the evening was threatening to be just as long and she would not tolerate it. Miles reached for the milk.

'So, Mrs Allsop, care to explain?' he said, stirring.

'You've known my wife long enough to call her by her first name,' said Kent.

Miles took a sip to silence himself.

'Every room needs an airing once in a while, Miles.' said Mrs Allsop. 'There's damp in this house. You have... valuable possessions in that room that need to be cared for.'

'What is in that room is none of your concern,' responded Miles.

'There are things rotting in there,' she added.

'No doubt,' said Miles, bringing the topic to a temporary close as he tapped the ridge of his mug loudly with the teaspoon.

The kitchen was warm, yet all three of its inhabitants clutched at their mugs for comfort. Miles had caught a chill, yet he would not dream of confessing such to present company; any I-told-you-so's would be intolerable right now. The electric light of the kitchen kept the night at bay, and Miles was pleased to be inside once again.

They each dealt with the lingering silence with synchronised tea drinking before Kent seemed to read Miles' mind:

'It's good to see you again, Miles,' said Kent. 'Alice keeps me up-to-date, but it's hardly the same. You look well. Better than expected.'

Miles recognised the lie in Kent's eyes, 'Do I?' he said.

Kent responded with a sip of his tea.

Miles wondered if the scalding contents of his own mug would make it successfully across the length of the table, perhaps followed by the mug itself. Despite such feelings of violence, Miles felt a strange sense of satisfaction in seeing Kent again; an old man.

'Where did you get to?' Mrs Allsop said, politely. Carefully.

'You didn't get my note? I went into town for a change of scene, to have a wander. By myself,' Miles said, politely.

'Anywhere in particular?' said Kent.

'A bar. I forget the name.' He looked to Mrs Allsop as she shook her head slightly.

'Where was it exactly?' she said, upset, but thawing to what could be an interesting conversation.

'Up from the monument, near George Street. You'd know it if you saw it. Anyway, I was passing. But it's no longer there. Well, I mean, it's some tea shop now.'

Kent could not picture in his mind what Miles was referring to.

'Nice?' he asked.

'I suppose. Not really my cup of tea,' said Miles.

'What were you doing there?' asked Mrs Allsop.

'Reminiscing. Old times. But, as I said, they weren't there. You really didn't get my note?'

'No,' said Mrs Allsop. 'Sorry, I didn't. You must be tired, I know I am.'

'Mrs Allsop,' said Miles as he glanced at Kent for a reaction, 'I don't know about you, but I am always tired.' He permitted a smile and looked back at his tea to avoid the disappointment of not seeing one returned.

'Well, perhaps we should leave you be and we can all get some rest,' she said.

Miles felt disappointment at the prospect of losing his company prematurely. 'What are you doing here anyway, Kent?'

'I thought my wife would appreciate the company. She was worried, you know.'

'Worried? Why worried?' said Miles, playing along.

'Come on, you vanished,' said Kent, 'Of course she would be worried. If it's any consolation, I told her not to be.'

'Oh really. How immensely considerate of you.'

'HA!' said Kent into the air above. 'Same old Miles, I see.' He looked away from the table and bit his tongue while sucking his teeth in annoyance.

'Did you take your medication this evening?' said Mrs Allsop.

'Oh please, do give it a rest,' said Miles.

'Okay,' she said as she stood and straightened her dress, 'I am tired and I am going home to sleep. I am worn out.'

'You should tell him what you found in that room,' said Kent, who had been hoping for more tea.

Miles laughed falsely before saying, 'I am fully aware of the contents of this house. There is nothing she can tell me about it.'

''She' is Mrs Allsop... Alice,' Kent said, correcting himself. He reached across the table and helped himself to a top-up. 'Tell him what you found, dear.'

'Miles, there are some lovely photographs in some of those boxes, and in the bookcase. The damp will get to them,' she said.

'I am fully aware,' said Miles. 'They are just pictures, nothing more. Reminders.'

'But they are valuable, Miles.' she said, sitting down again, tentatively. 'We are all of a certain age now, whether we like it or not, and we should perhaps face facts. Some things should not be forgotten.'

'I know,' said Miles, 'but I remember what I have to. I don't need photographs to remember the times.'

'How do you know? How do you know what you have forgotten?' said Kent.

Miles continued to look at Mrs Allsop and said, 'I know what you are trying to say, but really, every time I have seen her pictures, she seems somehow different to how I remember her. I remember her better without them, thank you.'

'But it's such a shame to keep them away,' said Kent. 'I don't think Sarah deserves... I don't think keeping her in boxes is healthy at all.'

'Well that's just wonderful for you,' said Miles, now turning his gaze to Kent, who had successfully riled him. 'Thank you for your advice, I really do appreciate it. However, as I recall, I never asked for it.'

Kent shook his head as much to Miles as to himself and looked down into his mug. Miles felt heat flushing his face as he glimpsed what he felt was Kent's characteristic condescension and relaxed into his own anger.

'Miles,' continued Kent, 'If you do not want them, give them to Alice. Those are her memories in there too.'

'No. They are mine. They are for me.'

'Be a better man, Miles,' Kent said. 'There isn't a whole lot of time left. What, are you going to take all those boxes and bags with you to the care home?'

'Oh, I see,' said Miles, 'you already have your eye on my things.'

Mrs Allsop sat staring at her shoes.

'Careful, old man,' said Kent. 'You should show more respect, if not to me, to my wife, at least. That's if you still want her to visit.'

'Is that the sound of your foot coming down?' said Miles. 'Mrs Allsop, I am disappointed. I thought you could stick up for yourself.'

'Don't,' she said.

'The years have been unkind to you, Miles,' said Kent. 'This house, well, it's not healthy for you.'

Miles looked at Kent and then to Mrs Allsop, who was now looking back at him. She removed a hand from her mug and placed it onto Miles' wrist without a word. He noticed her wedding ring. Her little finger, which rested on the back of his hand, was warm to the touch. Miles absorbed her look of kindness, which he interpreted as pity.

Miles addressed them both, 'Eager to get me into that home, aren't you?'

'Some things are inevitable, Miles,' said Kent, 'and Alice can't cope much longer. We have a life too. I miss my wife. Do you know what I mean?'

'I always know what you mean,' said Miles.

A moment of silence threatened to fill the room again.

'You miss your wife?' said Miles, 'Are you sure? Or do you miss mine?'

Kent concentrated the rage of his world in the direction of his old friend.

'We can go down that road again if you so desire, Miles. Unlike yourself, I am perfectly happy to talk about Sarah. We can discuss your role as husband... if you wish.'

'You miss your wife,' repeated Miles, ignoring, 'She's right here next to you and yet you complain. You have never known how lucky you are.'

'You and I both know what...' said Kent, interrupted by a pointed finger from across the table.

'Now you misspoke before,' said Miles, 'This is home for me. Right here. I'm sorry if it doesn't fit your ideal, but this is me. This, here, is my life and I have lived that life trying to remove people from it, for some peace.' Miles felt a comfortable fury rising within. 'But I let you in, and now all you people want to do is throw me out.'

'It would be better for you to be around other people, Miles, don't you think?' said Mrs Allsop as she tried to bring some peace to the table.

'Nevertheless,' said Miles.

Kent had had enough tea and enough of Miles. He rose with a creak from his wooden seat to stand at full, authoritative height, 'Right. Let's go home, dear. You've had a long day. Miles, my wife will have a day off from you tomorrow, she needs her rest.'

Alice Allsop knew not to protest and squeezed Miles' wrist as she also stood.

'Mrs Allsop, your husband here is quite right. Your time here is squandered,' said Miles.

'Come,' said Kent, firmly. 'We'll show ourselves out.'

'Yes, you will,' said Miles.

They went out into the hallway and Miles sat motionless as he listened to them put on their coats. The door to the house opened, but heavy footsteps returned to the kitchen, accompanied by the cold air of the night. The footsteps halted directly behind Miles and he did not turn around.

Kent's voice said, 'I came here today for my wife, not for you, and if anything, you need to remember that I know what you did. Don't forget that.'

The footsteps retreated once again and the door slammed shut.

Miles listened as the engines of two cars erupted into noise and faded down the driveway.

The silence of the house was occasionally interrupted by creaks and groans as the building settled for the night. Despite feeling the pervading solitude of his surroundings, the old man felt uncomfortable sitting with his back to the open doorway of the kitchen. He stood slowly and shuffled in his slippers to the light switch and turned it off. He was pleasantly surprised by the amount of moonlight that illuminated the room, highlighting shadows in the darkness. He decided to enjoy the moon a moment longer and made his way to the window. He caught glimpses of the pure white of the moon through the leaves of the plant that crept up the outside of the window. He grasped the edge of the Belfast sink and turned his attention to the shadows on the wall next to him. Shadows of leaves danced on the wall and on his face, accompanied by the sound of the wind.

The old man felt at ease as he always did when alone. He thought of Kent, the surprise of the day, and how a man like that could never be alone, could never cope with his own company as well as Miles himself did. Two different people. One afraid. Miles never wished harm on anyone, but felt annoyed that his old friend had made it through life unscathed and unaware. And what exactly had he meant by his parting words.

As always, thoughts of friends made the old man unhappy and he decided to stop thinking of them. He felt bad for snapping at Alice, though. She did not deserve it. However, she had chosen to spend her one life with Kent, and so Miles stopped feeling so bad.

'Did I take my medication?' asked the old man of the house. He felt fine, comparatively, so decided he must have taken it, or that perhaps he did not need to today. The blanket approach to medicating the old, to artificial preservation, never interested Miles until he had excruciating pains in his head, his hands, his back. Everything ached these days. He was dying along with everybody else, and he was perfectly willing to accept it, embrace it almost. He felt twinges as he looked into the shadows, his back to the moon, his own shadow stretching out away from him as if trying to escape. His head began to ache with the thoughts of that day.

How do you know what you have forgotten? I am fully aware. You already have your eye on my things. You miss your wife, or do you miss mine? There are things rotting.

The old man turned to the window. Staring back was a faint reflection of himself.

What are you looking at?

*

Sarah had her back to him. She basked in the sun that illuminated her face. She allowed herself a smile, one which her husband would never see. Her smile was directed at the sun, then at the faint reflection of herself in the kitchen window. She certainly did not look as old as she felt and she now felt she was at the end; as old as she would be. That had become a recurring feeling of late.

Her slender hands rested on the thick rim of the sink and she put her weight onto one of them. She held a knife in the other. As her husband waited impatiently for a response, a reaction, she allowed herself a moment of peace in which to remember all that had been of concern to her, all that she had loved, all that had been given to her by life, only to be lost. She stared into the sun.

'Sarah, what are you looking at?' said Miles, again, sternly.

She looked at herself in the window, 'Nothing,' she said. 'Nobody.'

*

The old man peered through his own vague reflection at the dirt yard, the outhouses, the wiry trees surrounding him and his home. All as it had ever been, as far as he could recall. He turned and exited the kitchen, crossed the hall, and entered his bedroom.

A bookcase lined the far wall, gigantic and unused. Sticking out into the room was his single bed, draped in a variety of old bed sheets, a duvet, a blanket and a throw. He turned on the bedside lamp under which was a hardback book, a digital radio permanently tuned to one classical station, and a glass of stale water. He placed his spectacles down on the book, before deciding that he did have medication to take after all, but then he would have to visit the toilet, then deal with his dentures. Then and only then could he get some sleep.

As proclaimed by Kent, Miles was not to expect Mrs Allsop the following day, and so he would be alone. For once, the old man went to sleep looking forward to waking up.

Fourteen

I get up in the morning, having been up several times throughout the night. Once the sun is up, I stay up, out of habit. Staying in bed all the time would be defeatist and I would probably seize up altogether. So, I get up and I shower the sweat of the night from myself.

Teeth go in.

In my bedroom I listen to whatever the radio has to offer me, which I suppose must be quite loud, as I hear it quite well. This morning, Dubussy's Reverie fills the room, if not the entire house. I only know the music because the radio tells me who it is, otherwise it remains simply a beautiful accompaniment. As it plays, I dress in my usual brown slacks, vest, shirt and sweater, socks and slippers. I wear my watch out of habit rather than necessity, and strap it around my wrist so that the face sits on the underside, against my pulse. Like several before, the leather strap has worn over the years and will need replacing if it is to last another thirty or forty years. I then look into the tall standing mirror in the corner and remind myself of my age. Half of me seems burnt out by lamplight and I turn it off before opening the curtains. It is grey outside and the bare trees glisten with fallen rain. The weather has yet to concern me, as I doubt I shall be going out today.

I leave the room for the day and enter the kitchen to prepare my usual breakfast of toast and marmalade and tea. I shall take my first round of pills after I have eaten. Digestion helps in some way, but I forget how. I place one tea bag into the teapot, as I can then squeeze another cup from it if I so fancy. The toaster that found its way into my home is unattractive to me, so I toast my bread under the grill. I turn the grill off before I remove the toast. I butter the toast and, with a different knife, spread on some marmalade. I check to ensure that the grill is off. It looks like it is, but I gently turn the knob clockwise against resistance, reassuring myself that it is now completely off. I do not trust my eyes.

I pour my tea into the mug that features a painted English garden bird on it and add the milk. The handle of the mug has a hairline crack. It has been there since I can remember and every day I dare it to snap, scalding me. I carry both the mug and the plate to the kitchen table and sit with my back to the window.

The kitchen radio that entertains Alice now entertains me and helps fill the house with music of my preference. It accompanies me as I eat my breakfast and as I wash my plate and mug in the sink and as I glance at the grey outside. I wish it would rain, but the weather seems indecisive today. I glance at the kitchen clock and it tells me it is only approaching nine. There is so much of the day ahead to deal with.

The newspaper has been delivered and I read it in the living room. As with most of the events of the world throughout my life, the news I now read will not affect me in any noticeable way, but it is reassuring to know that others are having a worse time of it. I take my first set of tablets for the day as well as my inhaler, spraying who-knows-what from a plastic container that is pressed against my mouth.

Later, part-way through a frustrating crossword, I make myself some coffee and return to my chair in the living room to savage the remainder of the cryptic clues and I forget that my coffee is sitting next to me until it is cold. I then drink it cold. Oh, there is a biscuit. I had forgotten about that.

I watch the news on the television that repeats what I have just read, but it takes up another half an hour or so. An advert follows the weather report and the man featured has too many teeth. I turn off the objectionable man. Silence is golden. Is it lunchtime yet? I look at my watch.

No.

I move through the kitchen and step out into the yard to examine the trees and outhouses and reassure myself that it is, indeed, very cold. I contemplate the current time of life I find myself in. All looks the same as it did all those years ago when I first set eyes on this place. Weeds grow strong. I wish it would rain. Cold gets under my skin and the first twinge of arthritis of the day makes itself known. My skull feels as though it is shifting, contracting somehow. I return inside for paracetamol for the headache I now have. I should sit in a quiet room for a while. All the rooms of the house are quiet, though I do not recall turning the radios off.

I wake in my chair.

Yes, it is now lunchtime. My hand still aches as I struggle with the ridiculous can opener which Mrs Allsop had purchased for me without my say-so. Eventually, I open a tin of condensed chicken soup and add some water to it in a pan. I have already had toast, so shall have crackers with the soup. After a few moments, the soup begins to bubble furiously on the heat of the range. I eat the soup with three crackers then wash the dishes. I take my lunchtime round of medication and wash them down with a cup of tea.

I sit for a while.

An old black-and-white movie starring Robert Donat plays on the television and I fall asleep to it. It still plays as I wake but I have lost the thread of the story and must move my legs about anyway, as cramp has taken hold in my right thigh. The pain is excruciating and brings tears to my eyes. It is the one thing that brings tears to my eyes.

Oh yes, my eyes. I rinse my eyes. In the mirror of the downstairs bathroom my eyes look back and I note how the whites have yellowed. They seem shrunken in their sockets. I can't imagine feeling any older than I do right now and I am very tired.

Caught between meals, I do as I always do when Alice leaves me in peace and I cross the hall to the room she had no business being in the night before.

Boxes.

Boxes and boxes. Some hold glassware, ornaments, photographs. There are a few bags of old bedding for double beds. I should really get rid of those. Maybe tomorrow.

I take my usual seat while holding an album of photographs and take my time with them. The particular album I look at first contains many square prints, about three inches by three, that have white borders around them. The images within those borders are black-and-white, which means mostly grey. Of these, I feature in none. Perhaps this particular set had belonged to my brother. A young man who resembles him stands proudly on a hill with some woman; hiking, by the looks of it. I take the print from the page and turn it over. The writing is difficult to read. 1942. Bill. Yes, it is Bill. I do not recognise the woman. Too long ago. Bill looks strong and vigorous here and, despite the grey of the print, it is clear that he stands in the sun. How could that young man become old? I scan through similar pictures that must have been taken on the same day. I suppose that I acquired this particular album after he had died. There is no other reason why I would have it. We were very different people.

In another box, I find an album that is familiar and I know I will take even more time with this one. I open to my dead wife's face; a formal portrait of her head and shoulders that fills the page. I cannot recall why she would have had a formal portrait taken, but she looks of the age when I knew her. Looking now, all her photographs hold false smiles. Knowing smiles. We both deserved to become old people, but she got in the way of herself. And me.

I fumble my way through pages that crack and peel as the acetate sticks to each one. My heart seems to beat stronger now, if not dangerously so, as I know I am approaching the most important photograph, the one that brings me nothing but sadness and joy when I see it each day. I find myself merely glancing at the images that precede it, images of past times we shared together. I then turn the page that reveals the small photograph, which sits loose, wedged in the crease of the album. A little girl in a duffle coat on a cold day on a cold beach. A little girl whose name was never to be mentioned again, but whose name had elicited more joy than her time on earth could withstand. She had been the best of both of us.

The air in the room is stale but I enjoy it. I sit in it, breathing it in and out again and again, and I lose track of my time.

After a successful casserole dinner, and after the washing-up is washed, dried, and returned to appropriate cupboards and drawers, I sit in my chair in the living room and place a hand to my head. The pains of various parts of my body compete for attention but the head wins for now. My head aches and rightly so. There is much pain. I joke to myself that it is my conscience, but I am unsure as to why. It is only when I think of nothing that my head begins to clear.

Yes dear, I think too much, I know. No, I don't think I do deserve this. It's all your fault. Sorry. Forget that. I didn't mean it. Forget it. Nobody is to blame (but you). I'm sorry. What was I supposed to do? You are selfish. You don't love. Don't love me. Stop moping. Get up, get dressed. What about me? What about me. I am all you've got left. I know what you did.

Don't forget that.

Fifteen

'Fancy meeting you here,' Miles said to Sarah, another joke of his she either did not understand or did not appreciate. Perhaps both, he had thought.

Miles had been wandering around the manse for almost an hour, inspecting and assessing what was now, legally, their home, courtesy of the untimely deaths of Sarah's parents some months before. During the few years spent with Sarah, Miles had never been particularly close to his in-laws, particularly her parents, whom he had always assumed had developed a healthy contempt for him. Not that such contempt was unwarranted. They had offered little in the way of affection. Instead, there was unflinching civility. Now they were dead and it had transpired that their grand old house in the Scottish Borders now belonged to Sarah. So now, here was Miles, feeling like an intruder in his wife's new house.

Light summer rain had added to the beauty of the drive down from Edinburgh that morning. It was only about an hour's drive to the house at that time of the day, and the morning sun shone harshly, glistening off the property and the trees surrounding it. It was an impressive sight that came into view as their car crawled along the driveway and around the bend to the front of the building. Miles had been to the house on a handful of occasions, but had never taken the interest he now took in the property itself. It was a pleasant change to arrive without a feeling of dread, of being under duress, and Miles was aware of it and he liked it. With the engine switched off, he wondered at the bright future that glistened before them. Sarah simply sat there.

They entered the hallway together with tempered enthusiasm, as if intruding, but Miles' enthusiasm quickly overtook his respect and he swivelled the set of house keys around his finger as he surveyed the spaciousness before him. He felt a slight shift in his being, an almost negligible increase in self-esteem.

'Welcome home, my love,' he said to Sarah, looking behind to see her in the doorway. He had turned quickly enough to see her switch on 'the smile'. 'Not too shabby, eh?'

'No, dear. Not at all.'

'Well,' he continued, turning back to face the staircase, so as to avoid her fake enthusiasm and general dreariness, 'let's see what we can see. Come on, let's explore... see what we have.' As he spoke, Miles bounded across the hallway to the kitchen, hoping to put a bit of distance between himself and his wife before she deflated him further.

As Sarah followed him at a slower pace, she found him kneeling before the cooking range, his head inside one of the ovens, and she wondered what he hoped to find in there. The head popped out with a half-smile.

'Lovely, eh?' he said. 'This'll do very nicely indeed, thank you very much. Never thought you'd have such a huge kitchen, did you?'

Sarah then approached the large window on the opposite side of the room and commented on its size and general niceness, as if looking out of it for the first time.

'I know, isn't it?' said Miles, reinforcing her sudden positivity. 'And that lovely Belfast sink. That'll last.'

Sarah commented on the view.

'Yes, yes, lovely,' said Miles. He looked more at her as she looked more at the outside world. 'I'm going to get acquainted with the rest of the old place. Let's meet back here for tea in a bit. The hamper's in the car. It's unlocked.' Miles kissed her on the cheek and left her alone for the best part of an hour.

'Fancy meeting you here?'

Sarah was sat at the kitchen table on which stood a thermos of tepid tea and some triangular sandwiches that she had brought in from the car. Her reaction to Miles was simply to pour the tea into the china cups she had found in the cupboard. As with most of the possessions in the house that her parents had acquired throughout life, the best china had been harvested by a variety of upset relatives. Those relatives had been upset at the revelation that the estate was to pass on evenly to the two daughters, with Sarah getting the house simply because Alice was too attached to the city, so long as the house was never sold. Sarah and Miles would have to drink their tea around cracks and chips for now until they moved their own meagre possessions in later that week.

The filthy hand that belonged to Miles grabbed the china cup and he took a sip without blowing first. Sarah asked him if he had been having fun.

'I did, I did.' he said. 'It's a great old place and there is so much we can do here. What did you get up to?'

She said she had looked at the garden, not revealing that she had looked at it only from the kitchen window where she had remained for almost the entire time he was gone.

'Lovely,' Miles said, thinking about other things, 'Cold house, though. We'll get it cosy soon enough. Just think, this time next week, we'll be living in our own home. Finally.'

Sarah said nothing and sipped her tea over a chipped rim.

Miles bit his tongue.

'She certainly is a thing of beauty.'

Miles let the words escape as he stood alone in the yard. Opposite him, in the converted woodshed, sat the car. The Jaguar XK120 had briefly been the pride and joy of his father-in-law, and now it would be his. It sat facing the wall, only just fitting into the shed. Miles would have to wait to take it out, as today was not the day for frivolities and he knew Sarah would, no doubt, object. For now, he traced a finger along the curve of the impotent chassis as its curves glistened in the meagre sunlight that penetrated the gloom. He grabbed the tarpaulin but hesitated to cover such magnificence, as if about to cover a loved one, and breathed in his temptation once more, resting his free hand on the canvas of the coupe's soft-top.

'You found it then?' said Alice. Miles had not even heard her pull into the driveway.

'Yes, well, er... she needed company,' he said. He felt as if he had been caught out somehow.

Alice approached him as she removed her driving gloves and scanned the yard. Looking dapper, even boyish in her tweeds, Miles suppressed the acknowledgment in his head that she was the prettier of the two sisters.

'Well,' she said, 'so long as I get a go in her once in a while, you have my blessing. May you have a long and incredibly dangerous life together.' She looked more at the car than at Miles, who was busy groping for conversation. As usual in such circumstances, he made a fool of himself, if not Alice.

'Guess you assumed you would get to keep her,' he said.

'Hmm. I actually assumed father would out-live her. He only had the damn thing five minutes. Not to be, eh?'

'No,' said Miles, and he turned his head from the roadster back to Alice. 'No, not to be. Sorry.'

'Don't apologise, you ass, you didn't kill them. So, where is she?'

'She was rooting about in one of the upstairs bedrooms, last I saw,' He finally covered the car with the tarpaulin and motioned toward the house that stood obvious before them. 'I'll come with you.'

They walked towards the back door that Alice had run in and out of many times as a child. She allowed herself a smile that went unnoticed. Like Sarah, Alice had realised how infrequently she had been to the house of late and the place now represented her guilt. So did all the money that now rested in her various accounts, but she would just have to learn to live with such guilt.

'And how is she?' said Alice, glancing away from her own reflection in the kitchen window and the sunlight that bounced off the pane.

'Well, she's fine, Alice, just fine. She will be in time,' said Miles. 'How are you?'

'Getting there. It's all so unreal. I'm more concerned about Sarah, of course.'

'Try not to be. She's got me, remember?'

'I'll be here whenever she needs me, Miles, so don't take it all upon yourself now, you hear?' Alice said. 'I know my sister. She needs family around her. Now more than ever.'

'And where better to be than the family home,' said Miles as he opened the door for Alice. The relative dimness of the interior was welcome relief from the outside glare and Alice waited until she was halfway into the room before turning to Miles.

'In any other circumstances I would be inclined to agree, Miles, but this place holds a lot of memories for us. This may be where she wishes to be right now, but that doesn't mean it's the best place for her.' Her tone was now firm.

'You know your sister, Alice,' said Miles as he bit his tongue for the umpteenth time that day, 'and I know my wife. Let's just agree to keep an eye on her and let her know she isn't alone in all this.'

'Yes, yes, I agree,' said Alice, annoyed now that Miles had, as ever, talked her out of a longer conversation and drawn a premature line through her concerns. 'Look, do you fancy a brew?'

'Yes, that would be nice.'

'Lovely. Be a dear and bring some up for us will you?' Without another word, Alice about-faced and wandered out into the hallway, calling for her sister.

Miles stood abandoned as he listened to Alice bound up the staircase to conspire. He made his way to the sink and turned on the hot tap. He grabbed the cracked bar of soap that sat dry by the drainer and made an attempt to wash the grease and dust from his hands. He looked around for any kind of towel or cloth with which to dry them on and instead had to make do with his wife's coat, which hung on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He then set about making the tea he did not really want.

With the slight tremble of his hands that he had always had, the three teas rattled on the tray as Miles ascended the staircase. No doubt Alice would mock him for using old china, he had thought, but it was his china now, and he would use it if he so pleased.

Voices guided him up the stairs and across the landing to the one open doorway. Inside, murmurs turned to conversation about possessions and reminiscence. He found the two sisters sat on the floor of the master bedroom, hunched over their mother's jewellery box. Neither acknowledged Miles until Sarah let a 'tut' escape her as Miles set the tray down on the dresser with a clatter. He stared at the back of her head in the mirror.

'Tea,' said Miles, firmly and slightly louder than required, so as to penetrate the perceived shrillness of the sisters as they discussed the necklace held in Sarah's hands. Alice gratefully relieved Miles of the cup and saucer that trembled in his hand as he brought it to her.

'Nervous?' she said, taking a sip without taking her eyes from him.

'Tired. Low blood sugar. Why would I be nervous?' said Miles. He was always irritated by the predictability of people's observations.

Alice did not respond and Miles gave another clattering cup and saucer to his wife, which she took silently, more engrossed in the jewellery laid out on the carpet. Miles then sat himself on the stool of the dresser and sipped his tea as he gleefully imposed. He saw his wife in the mirror, holding aloft some brooch into the daylight that fell upon them.

'Such good taste mother had,' said Sarah.

'Well of course, she had us,' said Alice. Alice had always been adept at cultivating smiles on Sarah's face. 'You're lucky that you look more like her. All this will suit you very well.'

'No.'

'Don't talk rot, of course it will.'

'No, I mean, this all belongs to her. This is who she was. It's not really me.'

'It belongs to you now, dear,' said Miles, interrupting the private conversation.

'I know but... it's all just another reminder,' said Sarah, holding an ornate necklace of emeralds to the light. 'These will just be weights around my neck. I want to remember them, of course, but, well, at the same time, I don't want to remember them. Not now. Not now they are gone. That's the only way I can think of them just now.' She lowered the necklace, 'Alice, you have it.'

'Give it time. Hang on to it,' Alice said. She clasped her hand over the emeralds and over the hand that held it.

'It's as much mine as it is yours. Please, take it,' said Sarah.

'It's not my style. Besides, with all the money they have left me I can now buy my own jewels. You just have this old place, and what's in it.'

As Miles watched in the reflection of the mirror, Alice reached over and seemed to wipe Sarah's cheek. He sipped his tea and tutted in his head.

'It's fine,' said Sarah, taking a breath. 'Really. If this is to be our home,' she said, now addressing an attentive Miles, 'then it needs to be ours, not theirs. All of this stuff needs to be boxed-up, stored away, until either Alice here decides she wants any of it or I do.'

'All of it?' said Miles.

'Well, that is what I have just said,' said Sarah.

Miles turned to Alice so as to calm himself, if not to plead.

'It's what I want, Miles,' continued Sarah. 'Not all of us move on quickly. I need time.'

Alice said nothing and sought refuge in her china cup.

'Far be it for me,' said Miles, finding his hands in the air, surrendering, and slapping his palms down onto his thighs. 'But while you're at it, this wallpaper has to go too. It's giving me a headache.' Unable to hide his irritation, Miles stood and took his tea with him out of the room.

Out in the hallway, he crossed the landing to the top of the staircase where he stopped and considered. Aided by the soft carpet of the landing, he made his silent way back to the room and lingered a few feet from the open doorway and focused his attention on the words that hung in the air.

'What?' said Sarah to her sister.

'Nothing. Just seems a waste,' said Alice.

'This place, I tell you. Even the smell reminds me of them, reminds me of home. Our home,' said Sarah.

'Whatever makes you happy,' said Alice. 'But what you said earlier, it frightens me.'

'I don't want you to worry, but I had to speak to someone.'

'Have you mentioned any of this to him?'

'How can I? And I don't think I should need to.'

'You should. As a spinster, I probably shouldn't be giving such advice, but communication is the key to any relationship, don't you think?'

'Dear, you are not a spinster. The right man will come along.'

'Don't pity me now,' said Alice with a wagging finger and a smile. 'If that man shows up, then fine, but I have held my breath long enough waiting and I am busy breathing again just now. But really, it is better that you talk to him than to let things fester underneath, until it's too late.' Sarah remained silent. 'Well, you know I am around. With mother and father gone, well, I need you around too.'

'Please don't worry,' said Sarah. 'I suppose this will pass. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I don't want you to worry about me. They are just thoughts in my head, nothing more.'

'But otherwise, how are things between you both?' said Alice.

'They are what they are.'

Descending the staircase, Miles muttered Sarah's words and resisted the urge to return to the room in search of clarification. He knew that this would be one more discussion, one more disagreement which he would not win. One could never argue with grief. He returned the cup and saucer to the kitchen and left it in the sink for somebody else to wash. He leaned back against the porcelain and looked over at the cooking range.

'Well we're keeping that!' he said aloud to himself. He let his head fall and rested his chin on his chest, hoping that either Sarah or Alice, or preferably both, would see him like so and become concerned, before snapping his head back up to flash his fake smile. But he raised his head to an empty room, the back of his neck aching from the stretched muscle. Alone and free, he cursed into the air. This, he thought, would always be her home, never his.

Above him, the sisters would be talking in a way he and his wife had not done for such a long time. It seemed to Miles that his wife had a limited capacity for affection these days, and what there was seemed reserved for others. Sarah could muster politeness and smiles for strangers, but not for him. Perhaps she was too relaxed around him to care. Yes, he had thought, that must be it. He would try and get another moment alone with Alice before she left. Annoyed at always walking into hushed rooms and muted conversations, Miles needed to know what was being said, and how he could say as much to his own wife. Not that Alice ever gave much away, what with her loyalty reserved for her sister.

The rest of that day ambled along. Polite conversations occasionally disturbed the silences and Miles decided to avoid any confrontation with Alice. Whatever was eating away at Sarah would blow over, he was sure. It always had.

By the time the sun was low enough to touch the trees around the house, Miles was turning the key in the grand old door and he pulled on the handle just to be sure. He walked over towards the two cars where the two sisters huddled together as they waited to depart. He walked by them as they embraced each other and said their goodbyes.

'And remember what I mentioned,' said Alice to her sister.

'I know. I'll call when we're settled. Come back soon,' said Sarah.

'Well of course I will,' said Alice, turning to Miles as he opened his car door. 'I shall be back before you know it, I'm afraid. Can't get rid of me.'

Miles failed to think of an inoffensive response to this remark and simply raised a hand in acknowledgment, perhaps defeat. The slam of his door brought Sarah back to the attention of Alice.

'Take care, dear,' said Alice, clutching Sarah's hands, 'and enjoy this old place. See it for what it is, an opportunity. Be happy here for their sake.'

'In time,' said Sarah, threatening a smile.

'Good girl. Chin up!'

Following a brisk kiss on Sarah's cheek, Alice got into her car. The headlights blinded Miles in his rearview mirror until it disappeared from view down the driveway. He looked through the passenger window to see Sarah's torso. Her arm fell to her side, yet she remained static for an uncomfortable moment. Uncomfortable for Miles. He watched her. He started to lower his head, so as to see hers, but decided that the last thing he wanted was to see that sad expression befall her face once again. He was not excited by the prospect of her morose company all the way home, but he was too tired to try and tease happiness from her now. Once again, she had successfully tainted what should have been a happy day. He reached across and opened her door, peeking out at her.

'Come on, old girl, in you get. It's getting cold.' With that, he turned over the engine and illuminated the yard ahead as she joined him. He was reversing by the time she managed to close her door. 'I'm sorry you had a difficult day.'

'It's just... strange,' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

Miles accepted her apology for the sake of the ride home, but that was all. Their car emerged from the trees and onto the country road and Miles turned into the low sun as they headed toward the city.

'Such beautiful country,' Miles said to himself as much as to Sarah. 'We'll be happy here, I promise. A new beginning for us. And the country air will do you good.'

'It's a shame that such beauty is so far from everything,' said Sarah. She shaded her eyes with her hand.

'Perhaps that is why it is so beautiful,' said Miles.

'The city is beautiful also, you just have to know how to look at it.'

'This is not the end of the world out here. You'll make new friends.'

'And you?'

'I have work. That's all the contact I need with people. You're enough for me.'

Sarah put her hand down. Tall trees funnelled the road ahead and momentarily obscured the sun. She turned to Miles and admired his features as he focused on the road; sun and shadow flickering on his face.

'It shouldn't be that way, Miles. People are good for you.'

'They're good for you, dear. They keep you afloat,' he said, immediately wishing he had not. 'You need them, I'm perfectly happy it just being the two of us. And I enjoy my own company. I can be quite entertaining, y'know.' He gave her a rare wink and a glimpse of old romance before returning his squinting eyes to the sun as it emerged from the horizon. Sarah was visibly taken aback by such a glimpse of that which was lacking, that was lost. He had successfully avoided the issue.

'But you're so good with people, Miles.'

'Nevertheless, I am happy with the way things are on that front. It's different for men, you understand that.'

'It's not healthy.' She fell silent again as her husband was bathed in orange glow, the black shadow of the rear-view mirror gliding over his face, across his eyes, as the car followed a bend in the road. A strong jawline. The leanness of the face. Premature wrinkles brought about by smoking. The severity of the line that parted the dark hair. With eyes obscured by shadow, he could be anybody. 'You're a handsome man, Miles Morgan,' she said, with sadness.

'As long as you think so.' He brushed her admiration aside. He had never been comfortable with praise from his own wife. It made her seem deluded. He supposed he should probably return the compliment. Perhaps rest a hand on her leg rather than the gear stick. He kept his hand where it was. It no longer felt natural to him to reach out to her.

'Look. Beautiful, isn't it?' he said.

His pointed finger directed her attention to the road ahead as the corridor of trees gave way to a vista of green field patchwork, dissected by a flowing river as it made its way down into the valley. The setting sun made the dark waters of the river seem thick, like syrup, the high tide threatening to spill over onto the surrounding farmland. Ahead, the road passed over the water. As they approached an arched stone bridge, the couple admired the view in silence as they finally found the highlight of their day, just as that day came to an end. The end, for both of them, was always the highlight of their days together. Miles could no longer remember the days that were not ended in the company of his wife. Regardless of everything, that was why it remained the highlight for him; they had made it to the end together, once again. Sarah Morgan, however, was simply relieved that another day was done with.

The bridge was narrow, with room for only one vehicle to pass over it at a time. Miles reduced his speed to a crawl as he approached the brow. As the car proceeded over the bridge unimpeded, Miles glanced to his right to steal a view of the winding river, which reflected the sky above it. The view could not be fully appreciated from a moving vehicle, and one day, Miles thought, he would take a walk out here and just sit. He would sit and take in the beauty.

Sixteen

For Sarah Morgan, the house had always been a home away from home. It had been that point in her life around which all else revolved and gravitated towards. Now that the house was hers, that she was now owner and occupier, she became acutely and painfully aware that it had been the people, not the place, that had always pulled her in. Those people were gone. It did not concern her that Miles wanted things a certain way, just so. Miles always wanted things a certain way and was used to having it, but this house they now shared was hers. It was no longer her parent's home and she did not require reminders of them staring her in the face.

During those first few days, Sarah had insisted on the majority of the possessions that came with the property to be stored away. There were plenty of rooms in which to store them, and she considered the whole house nothing but a storage space of late, but now that they had moved in, she decided that the reception room would suffice. It had been a favoured den of her father's, and so it seemed fitting that what was left of her father, and her mother, should be stored there, in peace. Miles, disagreeable to the impracticalities of this decision, eventually relented under the misguided assumption that grief would give way to his version of common sense. As was usually the case with matters concerning his wife, Miles was mistaken.

Expressing his disdain, Miles had occupied himself with the numerous jobs he created for himself around the house and the grounds when not at work. Meanwhile, Sarah indulged her grief, packing away all ornaments and pictures, piling up furniture and furnishings into the one room she would never use again. Larger items, without the help of her husband, remained scattered around the house for the time being.

It took less than two days for Sarah to fill that room. The remainder of the house felt empty. What few possessions she and Miles had acquired in their own life together fell significantly short of replacing those of her parents. It would take time, as everything always did.

Deciding enough was enough for one day, Sarah stood in the doorway to the room to assess the results of her efforts. She looked at the boxes and the bags and then she closed the door on them. As with the sound of the door, Sarah's movements echoed throughout the house.

Miles had been at work all day, it being a Monday, and now faced a considerable journey to and from the city. It would be some time before he returned and Sarah struggled to find a purpose to occupy herself with until then. In the mornings, as Miles got ready to face the world, she felt a rising tension, almost panic, in waiting for him to leave the house and leave her be. But, once alone, she slowly craved his return, his companionship. That feeling had not been as acute when they had lived in the city.

She let her hand linger on the door handle as if having a second thought on the matter, but whether those items were in or our of that room, the loved ones were still gone. Feeling the need to sink further into such contemplation, Sarah took herself upstairs to her bed, to sleep away the rest of the day.

Before she had a chance to dream, the fragile stillness of the house was disturbed by a knocking at the rear door of the kitchen, accompanied by the creak of the door opening. Sarah lay still as she wondered who had entered her home without her permission, then sat upright as she heard her own name and a man's voice. And footsteps on the stairs.

*

It was some time later that day that Miles found himself standing on his new doorstep talking to himself. He always talked to himself when tired, and it had been a long day at work. He examined the door with his eyes, as if it did not fit the frame. He took a step back to get a better look at the facade. It looked much the same as it would for the rest of his life. He placed a hand in his raincoat pocket to find the keys to the house.

I felt as though I should've knocked.

'This is your home now,' he said aloud.

Don't make me go in there. It ruins everything.

'It's already ruined.'

The brass wolf head, holding the brass door knocker in its mouth, stared at Miles as he stared right back.

'Open the door. Go inside. They are waiting.'

"I don't think I want to come home to you anymore."

'What's that?'

Something you said once. As you go in, do bear in mind that things usually are what they appear to be.

His brown brogues returned to the doorstep and he opened the door with a bated breath.

Miles was met with the sound of music. It was one of his records he rarely listened to; a gift, some jazz guitarist he could never remember the name of. An American. The light, jovial tones made their way to him through the sliver of the open living room door. Not wanting to disturb the song or the happy mood it could be placing his wife in, he closed his own door behind him with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Absentmindedly, he had placed his trilby on the hat stand but kept his coat on as he approached the glimpse of the living room. The music was smothering a conversation coming from within. Sarah's voice. Then a man's. They spoke softly against the music, and Miles stood still at the door and stared at the carpet, hearing the man's voice first:

'Poor child.'

'Not even given a chance to be that,' came Sarah's voice.

'Don't say that. Don't say such things.'

'I am facing facts and coming to terms,' said Sarah, 'How about you?'

Miles entered. He had seen their hands before he had seen their faces, and doubted himself.

I did see it. I'm sure I did.

At the far end of the room, seated at the dining table that stood in the bay window, were Sarah and Kent. Sarah seemed startled by her husband's sudden presence in her home. A confused expression crowded her features as she wondered if he had seen what he should not have seen. On hearing the door to the room skim along the carpet, she had instinctively removed her hand from Kent's, and it was the speed of that movement that would stay with Miles for a lifetime.

Doubt yourself long enough until you are convinced of the doubt.

Miles had seen it. He was sure he had seen it, and it may have bothered him less if she had kept her hand where it had been. However, Kent, as always, sported an absence of concern and flashed a smile at his old friend, raising his arm aloft, now that it was free.

'Well hello there! The bread-winner returns once more,' said Kent, almost hollering across the gratuitous space of the room. 'Nice day at the office, dear?'

'Can't complain,' said Miles. 'What would be the point?'

'Indeed,' said Kent. He stood and moved out from the table, creating a welcome distance between himself and his friend's wife. Miles noted it.

'It's good to see you,' said Kent with his customary warmth. 'Can I get you a drink, young sir?'

Miles had always felt uncomfortable at how his friend assumed control. He put such behaviour down to Kent's wartime experience. Officers of a certain breeding always behaved in a certain manner and Kent was no exception. For Miles, the war had been a fitting excuse for many things, and Kent was one of those things. The war had been the reason they had crossed paths. It was the reason Miles felt subservient to this man who had been his Commanding Officer. His superior.

He then noticed Kent had already been supplied with brandy, as it sat in the appropriate crystal glass on the table next to Sarah's tea cup. He also noticed the smudge of lipstick on the rim of the crystal.

'Brandy?' said Kent, as he stood poised at the bottle he had brought with him.

Miles permitted a smile, 'Yes. Immediately.' He took off his coat and draped it over a chair at the dining table before planting the usual evening's kiss on Sarah's forehead. He then pointedly took Kent's seat. 'Make it a healthy one, will you.'

'I shall make it an unhealthy one, they're much more fun,' said Kent, as he emptied two fingers' worth into another crystal glass and brought it to the table. He then sat down beside Sarah, now even closer to her than before.

'Chink!' said Kent, his own glass refilled and raised.

'To my good health,' said Miles.

'No, no, I insist, to mine,' replied Kent, smiling broadly.

Miles took a gulp as Kent took a sip and Sarah simply drummed her fingers on the cup containing cold tea.

'So,' said Miles, purposefully leading into a considered silence before saying, 'to what do we owe the pleasure of your fine company so early in the evening? If I'd known you were coming now we could have chummed down together.' Miles found Sarah's hand now resting on his forearm, unsure if it was there with affection or to restrain his drinking.

Kent raised his own arms up to support a pronouncement, 'We're celebrating and I thought I'd come and see the new place. Figured Sarah here would be rattling around, waiting for the Lord of the Manor to return, so came to keep her company. And to see you, of course.'

'Of course,' said Miles.

'Shame I couldn't help you move. You know how it is. Busy time just now,' said Kent.

'Kent's been promoted,' said Sarah with a smile. It was the one she saved for guests.

'Oh really?' said Miles. 'Good for you.'

'Yes it is,' said Kent. 'I now have no option but to resign myself to the fact that I am a damn fine accountant and, now, partner. The old boys on the board finally woke from their slumber and realised what they had on their hands.'

'Took them long enough,' said Miles.

'Didn't it just!' said Kent, swatting away the jibe. 'More work, mind. Suppose I'll just have to play even harder to compensate.'

Miles noticed Sarah smiling as she soaked up the life and soul.

'Impossible,' said Miles as he took another gulp.

'Oh, I'll make time. In fact,' said Kent as he leaned forward, his boom becoming a whisper, 'I have a little confession to make. I am here to drag you away and show me some of your local ale houses. You have them out here, yes?'

'Oh, I don't know, Kent...' said Miles as he looked at Sarah.

'Oh, come on now,' said Kent, in no mood for 'no'. 'It's been too long and we need a proper catch up.'

'Well, if Sarah wishes to, we can all go,' said Miles.

'No, no,' said Sarah, 'Kent's right. You need to catch up.'

'You've been alone all day and...'

'It's fine, honestly. He's come all this way to see you, not me.'

'Your words cut deep, my dear,' said Kent, clutching his chest.

Miles returned his gaze to Kent who then spread his arms wide open as if to catch any further excuse. Miles knew Kent well and knew he needed a drinking companion rather than a friend. Miles entertained the notion that perhaps Kent Allsop had finally exhausted the city, its bars and its women, and now had to travel further afield to satisfy his thirsts.

'Come on,' said Kent. 'Let's go mingle with the yokels and see what mischief we can get you into.'

Seventeen

The drive along the winding road in the light of the dying day led the two men to the nearest pub in the area. It was the closest pub Miles knew of, having passed by it during a recreational drive the previous day enjoying some much-needed time alone. There were similar inns littering the surrounding area, remote and unwelcoming, and this would be as fine a place as any.

Having parked Kent's motorcar on the empty gravel frontage of the stone building, the two companions passed beneath the wooden sign hanging above the threshold. Neither had paid any mind to the name of the place. It was a pub. That was all they needed to know.

Kent beat Miles to the bar as always and ordered two ales from the oversized barman who offered them a good evening. Kent returned the greeting to him and to the two farm hands seated at the small bar. They nodded in response and ales were produced. Miles and Kent seated themselves at one of the many empty tables, choosing one next to the unlit stone fireplace in what was considered the lounge area of the bar. Other men trickled in and found acquaintances with whom to share conversation. The murmurings of men relaxed Miles.

'Well,' he said, 'here's to the next chapter, I suppose.' He raised his pint to Kent who complemented his action.

'Here's to the next drink,' corrected Kent, and the two men supped. Miles looked about himself at a place that he thought would no doubt become familiar and provide many memories for the future. Kent was looking at Miles.

'Seems like a nice...' began Miles.

'Seriously,' said Kent.

'What?'

Once again, Kent opened his arms to catch the world around him, 'What in God's name are you playing at?'

'You've lost me,' said Miles, his pint glass hovering under his mouth in anticipation.

Kent folded his arms onto the small table and leaned forward in confidence. 'Do you really think this is you? This place? My friend, you will go out of your mind out here, I'm telling you. That's what happens in these places.'

Miles supped as he pondered and slowly returned his glass to the table. 'What can I say. This is me now.' He opened his arms to his surroundings as he mimicked Kent.

'There's no life here for you.'

'There's no life here for you, you mean. You need to appreciate that some people want different things in life. I've moved on,' said Miles. His words were considered as he tried to decipher the gravity of Kent's words. They were drunken words. The honest language of expensive Cognac.

Kent sat back and away from the condescension he felt emanating from his friend. He stared at Miles for a moment, 'Listen, I know you, and I know you crave change, but you are going to miss the city, I guarantee it. Sell that old house. Live well, for a change.'

'But we've only just arrived. Look, we're not exactly far from the city,' said Miles.

'You're further than you think.'

'Well, thank you for your support, as always.'

'A concerned friend. As always.'

'It's only been a week. These things take time.'

'Well, you'll have plenty of that out here. To be honest, it's not you that worries me. It's Sarah. Can't you see it?'

There it is.

Miles decided the conversation was indeed serious and found himself drinking faster than his companion for a change.

'Be careful, Kent, you're on the verge of having yourself a serious conversation. You should relent while you have the chance.'

'She's bored,' said Kent.

'I know my wife. We moved here for her. These things take time.'

'She needs life around her, man.'

A loud roar emanated from the bar as happier men drank together and drank well. Miles turned to Kent in time to witness him down his ale, standing as he did so, 'We need to get drunk without delay.'

Miles decided to let him indulge in generosity and buy the next round also. He needed to sit and stew for a moment. He thought it was a bad idea to get drunk, but he would do so regardless. As usual. He decided Sarah would be suspicious if he returned sober.

He looked across the room at Kent standing tall and overconfident at the bar while the barman worked the tap. Froth spluttered into the glass as Kent removed a pack of cigarettes from the inside of his suit jacket before taking a light from one of the local men. Kent would have his own lighter, but grabbed at any opportunity for interaction. Miles had always considered Kent a compulsive socialite. Miles was less so, though admired the ability of his friend to generate affection from even the most unlikely of people. It seemed to Miles that Kent was asking questions of the men, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth as he nodded in understanding of some sort. At least one of the men, the one Miles could see the face of, was smiling at whatever it was that Kent was saying. The barman also now seemed engrossed and all the men followed Kent's hand gesture that guided their glances to Miles, then back to Kent. For reasons unknown, Kent shook the hand of the man facing Miles, before pinching his cigarette between his teeth and taking hold of the two pint glasses. He then returned to the table where Miles sat as social spectator. Hands full of glass, cigarette at the side of his mouth, Kent beamed wide-eyed at his friend as he spoke in muffled vowels, 'Thoroughly interesting fellows,' he said in a puff of smoke.

'Ingratiating yourself with the locals already,' said Miles, harshly.

'Now-now. Conversing, old man, conversing.' He slid the fresh ale over to Miles and finally withdrew the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling smoke through his nostrils.

'So? What did they converse to you?'

'Oh, they merely confirmed my worst fears.'

Kent paused for effect.

'Which are?' said Miles, obligingly.

'That this is, indeed, your nearest pub and that, yes, the locals are, indeed, quite backward.'

Kent raised his glass to the locals who raised easy smiles in return. Miles did not raise his glass. One of the men at the bar said something across the room to them, which neither of the two could understand. Kent returned a smile and raised his ale once again. 'Run for the hills, my friend,' whispered Kent, 'Run for the hills. Strangers in a strange land and all that. Seriously, this is not the place for you.'

'So sweet. You miss me, that's all,' said Miles.

'My dear fellow, I think you have hit the nail on the head.'

'Seriously, what did you say to them?'

'Seriously? Why be serious? I merely discussed the merits of life in the countryside versus, well, life, I suppose.'

'And?'

'And what? Both end.'

'So profound you are,' said Miles with undisguised sarcasm.

'Aren't I just. I blame expensive Cognac mixed with cheap ale. But take a long look at those fellows, my boy. You will be one of them before long.'

'And then you would have to associate yourself with riffraff on a regular basis, I suppose.'

Kent dragged hard on his cigarette, 'My dear chap, you wouldn't see me for dust.'

Truth.

Time passed as conversation meandered. Miles navigated it as best he could so that it returned to the subject of himself, which meant Sarah.

'What time did you arrive at the house? Were you working today?' Miles said. 'Oh, of course, your promotion.'

'Yes, early finish to celebrate. To celebrate with you. I can do that now, you know - finish early. It's what they call a perk.' Kent lit a fresh cigarette to accompany a fresh ale, 'I am now perky.'

'Not celebrating with Catherine?'

Kent blew smoke directly across the table and pointed his cigarette at Miles, 'Assassin. Why would you try and shoot me down in my moment of glory? Besides, Catherine is anything but perky.'

'So how was Sarah with you? Honestly, how did she seem to you?' Miles was always interested in how his wife was viewed through the eyes of others.

''Stable', is the word that springs to mind. But being alone there each day, well, it's not good. Not for anyone.' Smoke drifted across the table and shrouded Miles' face. 'Seriously, you need to think about it. She's going to waste.'

'I think of nothing else,' said Miles. 'She needed a change of scene, so here we are. She just needs a hobby of some sort. A distraction.'

'Hmm.'

They stared at each other thinking different thoughts.

'She seems different with others around,' said Miles. 'With me, she has nothing to say.' He suddenly felt like confessing, but was searching for something to confess to. He wanted to talk, but not with Kent. Kent was not a listener, and Miles could not trust him with matters of delicacy. He was, however, now aware that Kent only became serious about two subjects: his wife Catherine and his friend's wife Sarah.

'My friend, you are married,' stated Kent. 'There is a limit to what two people can talk about when they are in each other's pockets every day. I, or anyone else, for that matter, represent nothing more than a breath of fresh air. But it is not just other people that she needs.'

'She can no longer have what she needs. Anyway, most of the time she is reluctant to meet people, even though it does her the world of good. I'm just not enough for her.' With that, Miles lost himself.

Kent raised a hand. 'Stop, stop. Please, nothing too serious now. Look, we are running the risk of turning this evening into one we won't forget. We are here to celebrate, to celebrate me and, I suppose, the disastrous decision you have made to move out here to this Godforsaken land. Come on, let's change the damn subject.'

And Kent was the one person Miles had to talk to.

'Be my guest. Oh, but what were you and Sarah discussing as I arrived? She seemed nervous.'

'Did she?' said Kent. 'Yes, yes, I suppose she did. What can I say, I have that effect on the womenfolk.'

'So?'

'Nothing important. Just chit-chat. I do take credit for getting her chatting, though. Seemed to go quiet again once you came home, I must say.'

'Oh, thank you.'

'No, but I mean, proves my point somewhat. You're married. Can't be helped.'

'Can't be helped. You are such a comfort.'

'I aim to please, dear. You know, you didn't even say goodbye to her when we left.'

'She didn't say goodbye to me either.'

'Just saying. You remind me of myself at times.'

'Oh, I see. Abuse.'

'Hush now. Get up and get them in.' Kent placed his empty glass before Miles.

Now it was for Miles to integrate with the locals.

At the bar, he stood quietly as the barman refilled the same two pint glasses. The place had atmosphere now. Two locals indulged in a game of darts while their companions still occupied the seats next to where Miles now stood. Miles nodded to the man facing him and offered a greeting that came out quietly. At first, the local man remained still and silent as he assessed Miles.

'Is it true what your friend says?' said the local.

'It's very doubtful. What did he say?' said Miles, consciously louder.

'He says you are new to the area. Living out near the beech hedge, near the river.'

'In that case, yes, he is telling you the truth.' Miles felt familiar panic rise through his chest. His nod had been a mere gesture of warmth and obligation to another human being; he did not actually want to converse with the stranger.

'Hmm.' The local seemed to be in the process of adopting the suspicion and hostility that Miles felt he always inspired in his fellow man, particularly when new to them. The man was red of face from ale and weather and from living well. His overweight frame belied the strength and confidence of a man who had intimidated better men than Miles Morgan. That confidence allowed him long silences as he assessed further. 'What is your work?'

'I work in the city at present,' said Miles, looking briefly at the dartboard while he thought of what to say next. 'This and that. Mainly that.' Kent would have had them laughing, thought Miles, but Miles was not Kent and he should have known better.

'But what do you do?' persisted the local man, looking annoyed.

'In finance. Really nothing interesting.'

'Hmm. Apparently so.'

The other local, who had his back to Miles, visibly yet silently laughed at his friend's comment.

Miles suspected his own face may now be red with the heat that he now felt. He preferred to avoid discussing his failing career, and subsequently made matters worse in doing so.

He paid the barman. The barman placed change onto the bar, despite the hand that Miles held out for it. Miles then wiped the coins from the bar into his palm. He took the two pint glasses and turned back to the local.

'Well,' he said, 'a pleasure.'

The local man raised his glass. Miles turned about and walked slowly back to Kent, who seemed to have been watching the whole scene.

'Making friends, I see,' said Kent as Miles sat down.

'I have enough friends,' said Miles. 'Miserable sods. What the hell did you say to them that made them laugh earlier?'

'Nothing. I just told them about you.'

The barb of Kent's remark took hold and Miles decided the drink in his hand would be his last for the evening.

'Are you fit to drive?' said Miles.

'Always.'

'I should go after this. Get back to Sarah.'

'Drink slowly,' said Kent.

Miles could have sat there all evening. As was always the case, he felt he had little say in the matter and would have to return home. He sat and considered the drink before him and cared little for the fact that his face had fallen. He decided to sit as such until his friend felt inspired to discuss matters of importance. Miles then felt Kent's palm strike his right shoulder from across the table.

'Chin up. It might never happen,' said Kent.

'It already has,' muttered Miles.

'Come again?'

'I said,' Miles caught himself, 'Nothing.' He raised his eyes to meet Kent's, 'It doesn't matter.'

'Take her to that doctor,' said Kent, as if he had said so many times before out loud. 'It really wouldn't hurt. Perhaps he could prescribe something. A holiday, perhaps.'

'Who's got the time?' said Miles. 'She isn't motivated. Isn't interested in anything I suggest.'

'Well, perhaps if I suggest?' said Kent, with caution. 'She may listen to me.'

'I don't doubt it,' said Miles, before covering his tracks. 'Look, she just lost her parents, on top of everything else. I guess it will sort itself out. It'll just take time. It's always just a matter of time.'

'That's the spirit,' said Kent. 'What about the sister, Alice? Is she any help? You should speak to her.'

'Perhaps. Sarah seems much brighter when she's around.'

'She's a fine woman.'

'She seems much brighter around most people.'

'Very intelligent young thing. Independent. Perky.'

'Anyway, hopefully this move will be good for the both of us. A fresh start and all that. Just takes time.'

'The four of us should get together. Cheer old Sarah up a bit. Alice seems to be handling things quite well?' said Kent.

'What? Yes, I suppose she is. They are very different people, those two.' Miles took a sip of his ale and pinched foam from his upper lip. 'Surprised Alice hasn't succumbed to the charms of Kent Allsop yet. Holding out for better things. Or are you losing your touch?'

'HA!' roared Kent to the entire pub. 'Impossible, my dear fellow. Perhaps Alice simply isn't my type, eh? Did that ever occur to you?' Kent took a healthy gulp from his glass.

'Stranger things have happened,' said Miles, sipping from his.

'Listen, perhaps she has more in common with yours truly than you might think. Nobody here is getting any younger, but perhaps some of us like the life of, well, the life of independence. Of freedom. Alice just hasn't met the right fellow yet and, unfortunately for her, I am spoken for.' Kent fingered his wedding band at Miles.

'That looks a little loose to me,' Miles said. 'You should get it seen to.'

'Replaced?'

'Repaired.'

'It's comfortable like this,' said Kent.

'Looks... heavy.'

'We must all carry our share of burdens, my friend.'

'How is she?'

'She's fine. Catherine is fine.'

Miles raised his glass, 'To the women...'

'Each and every blessed one of them,' said Kent, raising his in response. 'And all who sail in them.'

Within the hour, Kent led Miles out of the pub, waving away the locals who cared less about their departure.

'ANON!' proclaimed Kent for all to hear as he crossed the threshold into the dark of the evening. Both men felt the freshness of the country air embrace them. As Kent reached the car, he turned to face the inn and the sign above its door.

'The Black Sheep,' said Kent dramatically.

'Original.'

'The Black Sheep,' Kent repeated, less dramatically. 'There's always one. So be it!'

Kent took his place behind the wheel of the car. Miles joined him and took three attempts to close his door as Kent turned the engine over, revving with excess.

'You hear that, eh?' Kent was shouting above the roar of the engine more with drunkenness than necessity. 'Beautiful, eh? You have to pay for that, I tell you. Best of British.'

The car reversed in a wide arc, stopping short of entering the inn, slipping to a halt on the gravel.

'Where to, my Lord?' Kent bellowed. 'Where do we go from here?'

Where indeed.

Eighteen

Weeks became months and it was still a matter of time. The idea had been Sarah's as they had endured another languid Saturday mid-morning breakfast together.

'I'd like to go to the beach,' she had said. 'Today.'

It had been a crisp, sunny morning, typical of the season, and it was mild enough of a day for walking along the beach but little else. Miles had agreed to the idea; an excuse to take the car for a spin with the top down. By noon, they found themselves parked on the grass flat atop a steep dune, looking out to the sea from the eroding land. They had followed the narrow coastal road, winding through fields and flatland, over the railway crossing that had always stuck with Sarah since her childhood; it had been a game to predict from which direction the locomotives would emerge. The road narrowed further as it traced the shoreline and Miles had driven by many worn patches of grass before parking the car atop the highest viewpoint overlooking the beach. The morning sun had since been smothered by light grey cloud that now filled the entirety of the sky above them. With the engine turned off, they sat silently as they contemplated the sea. Miles looked out from his window to see the now-redundant concrete hulk of an abandoned artillery bunker. Without a word, he stepped from the car, replaced the soft-top, and walked to the edge. Sarah followed.

She stood at the edge of the dune and looked out at the familiar landscape that she had visited many times before, particularly when the family had the dog. The beach now seemed smaller to her.

Rocks jutted from the land and receded with the outgoing tide. To her left, the beach only ran a matter of a few hundred feet or so until meeting modest cliffs and a lighthouse. To her right, the beach stretched on until it disappeared from view around a larger cliff, continuing south to surround the rest of the country. Miles disturbed her view as he gestured to the worn path that divided the clusters of marram grass leading downwards. As she made her way toward the flat of the beach itself, she let her hands brush against the marram that stood swaying either side of her, some of it rising above her, and she hoped she would not fall and need to grasp the razor-sharp weed. The breeze blew sand through the marram and the tips of it seemed to point towards the shore ahead of her. She slipped a little before steadying herself, grasping.

'I hate these things,' she said aloud. 'So harsh.'

'Don't,' said Miles from close behind, 'It's what binds the sand. It prevents erosion.'

'I know that,' responded Sarah.

Accompanied by the sound of the grey waves of the sea, Miles considered the back of Sarah's head as she led the way.

She could be anyone.

When she reached the beach she continued straight ahead to the water and Miles stood for a moment and watched her. He imagined her walking straight into the cold waters without hesitation, her head disappearing below the surface without once looking back.

He walked over the damp sand and took his dutiful place next to his wife. As he placed an arm around her waist, Sarah surprised him with a smile of sorts. It was not quite genuine, but it was a smile. She had made the effort. He smiled a similar smile back as she turned away to the sea. Miles had been taken off-guard and was unsure if she had noticed his belated effort. He rubbed her back to compensate. He opened his mouth to say, 'Cold', but thought better of it. They had not spoken a word on the journey here and it had felt comfortable to them both. His hand creased her Macintosh coat as he rubbed her back harder.

The sea threatened to reach their shoes and Miles was disappointed each time it did not. He turned back to Sarah and studied her profile as she looked ahead. Her hair protected by her headscarf, the sea air seemingly blowing away her tensions. She seemed almost happy, and so he too felt almost happy. During that time spent looking at his wife, Miles felt contentment. Perhaps, he had thought, this is where they were meant to be.

The couple moved in unison to their right and ambled along the shore towards rocks that led into the sea. Miles took Sarah by the hand and they held each other up and over the slippery rock, negotiating rock pools and seaweed. The far side of the rocks revealed a drop of a few feet, and Miles leapt down. He stretched both of his arms up and helped Sarah. He had not held her for such a long time.

'Thank you,' she said, with unwarranted formality. Miles smiled back, a smile which, again, Sarah turned away from. She released herself from her husband and continued walking. Miles followed a few steps behind.

'It's still beautiful here,' said Miles.

'Of course it is,' said Sarah.

'How long has it been?'

'Years. But I came so much as a child and I always remember it differently. It always surprises me to see it as it really is.' She looked back as she spoke and waited with an outstretched hand.

'It's lovely,' said Miles, taking it. 'Our local beach.' He always reassured her of their decision to move.

'Further on, beyond that dune,' she pointed, 'that's the island I mentioned to you earlier. We should go some time. Check the tide-table for the causeway. That is also very beautiful.'

'It's all beautiful around here,' he said.

'Hmm. I always used to hope that I would get trapped on that island, miss the low tide, become stranded. Something spontaneous like that.'

'Well, we can go, if you like,' said Miles.

'And become stranded?' she said with a smile.

'Sure. Why not?'

'No. It has to be by chance,' she said. 'You can't force such things.'

'Oh, I don't know.'

'Well, it's not the same,' she said, 'It's not spontaneous.'

A gust of salt wind hit their faces and Sarah seemed to inhale as much of it as best she could, her eyes closed to savour the freshness. As the gust died away, they moved forward as before. Miles picked up a thin piece of driftwood, decided against throwing it to the sea, and tapped it against his leg before tracing it in the sand. It quickly felt pointless and he dropped it. He looked up to see another smile flash over her face.

'You seem at home here,' Miles said.

'Here?' she said. 'Here is familiar, that's all.'

'We should come out here more often then. A blast of fresh air to blow away the cobwebs.'

'We live in the country. Fresh air is hardly lacking.'

'You know what I mean,' he said with an abruptness that took them both by surprise.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

'But do you feel settled yet?'

'I suppose. Don't you?'

'Me? I feel very settled, but the point is for you to be happy too. That is why we moved.'

'Let's not put this all on me.'

'I wasn't.' And Miles left it at that as Sarah's hand fell away from his.

They continued onward despite the increasing wind that impeded them and Miles felt familiar waves of frustration rising. It did not help that he felt it wearying to walk as slowly as Sarah now did. He suspected she did so on purpose, as if to fall behind him. That may be for the best, he had thought many times. In the breeze, however, the two of them walked sideways as much as forwards. Up ahead, Miles spotted a figure alongside what must have been a dog. Miles turned behind to see if Sarah had also noticed, but she had stopped again to consider the sea. Fine, he had thought, and kept on walking. Despite his frustrations, Miles was glad to have time alone on the beach. Being alone was liberating.

The figure with the dog was approaching. Turning his head, Miles saw that Sarah now followed.

'Well, she can catch up,' he said to the sea, and then stopped and waited for her.

The sun was breaking through the pale cloud cover and it warmed his neck. Patting his hair down, only for the wind to make the gesture futile, he then shaded his eyes to get a better look at Sarah as she approached. Because of the sun, he could not see her features well, but she seemed to be looking at him.

'Let's enjoy today, shall we?' he said as he pocketed his hand and offered his arm. She coupled with him and Miles led her along the shore at a speed comfortable to him. Grains skimmed along the surface of the sand and the couple closed their eyes as they felt the coarseness on their faces.

The beach revealed more stone and rock as the tide went out. Ahead of them, a spaniel ran without hesitation into the cold water. What had been thrown for it had escaped the dog's view and the animal quickly felt better of it, racing back out of the water as quickly as it had gone in. The owner of the dog, a slightly older man wrapped well for such conditions, caught some of the spray as the spaniel shook itself dry. He tugged at his flat cap as he acknowledged Sarah, and then Miles, and he smiled at Sarah. Miles attempted to keep walking, but Sarah's arm prevented him as she commented on the beauty of the dog to its owner.

'She's a grand beast alright,' said the man, his accent local and thick. 'Not too bright, though.' He smiled again, and this time Miles noticed some missing teeth. Miles then said something that the wind carried away. 'Eh?' said the man.

'I said,' Miles repeated, loudly, 'not too cold for her in the water!' It had originally been more of a question, but anger at having to repeat himself, let alone converse, had clouded Miles' judgement.

'It looks colder than it is,' said the man. If he had registered Miles' anger, he did not show it. 'Be careful of those rocks just yonder. Fair slippery. Almost went over myself.'

'We will,' said Sarah. Miles noticed her sudden effort to be sweetness and light, as she always was to others. 'Lovely place for a walk.'

'Aye, dear, it is that. It's this air that keeps me so young and beautiful,' said the man, before laughing at his own remark. Sarah laughed less so, but she still laughed.

'Do you live locally?' she said through her laugh.

'I do, I do,' said the man. 'My farm is only a mile or so aways. You would have passed it on the road here.'

'I see,' said Sarah.

'Ah,' said Miles, feeling excluded.

'And yourselves?' said the man.

'We're further inland,' said Sarah, 'Just moved from the city.'

'Newcastle? You don't sound Geordie to me,' the man said.

'Edinburgh. But I grew up around these parts, though. Used to come here all the time.'

'It doesn't change much,' the man said.

'I know. It's smaller, but it is the same,' she said.

'Aye, I know what you mean, dear. But it's a lovely part of the country all the same. 'Neither here nor there, but of its own self.' That's what my old mother used to say to me. Ah well, such is life.'

The lull that followed allowed Miles to conclude the encounter.

'Well, enjoy your walk,' he said, loudly.

'Yes,' said Sarah.

'And yourselves. Come on, you,' said the man to the dog that was now carrying thick wet rope in its mouth. The man tugged at his cap once again, 'Pleasure.'

Sarah turned to watch the man and the dog walk away from them.

'Such a sweet man,' she said.

'How do you know?' said Miles.

Sarah turned to him, 'Sometimes you can just tell.'

'Right, what's up ahead?' asked Miles, 'More sand?'

'Yes, more sand. Go back to the car if you like.'

'Is that what you'd prefer?'

'Oh, don't. Can we not just have a peaceful walk together? Really.' Sarah uncoupled herself. 'Don't... spoil it.'

For the remainder of their stroll, Sarah enjoyed the distance between them. This time, Miles had fallen far enough behind that any attempt at further conversation would be lost to the wind.

She could certainly pick up the pace when she wanted to.

Though the couple both lost track of time, it took them close to an hour to reach where they now were. The curve of the shore led them to the base of a large cliff around which they would need to walk to see any further vista. Sarah's childhood visits to the beach had never brought her this far and Miles was unaware of her desire to simply keep walking, to keep going, ever onward. The tiredness that Miles now felt meant that he, at least, would go no further, but Sarah insisted on seeing what lay beyond the beach. Miles let out a half-formed curse as he saw her disappear around the cliff. Waiting, he imagined he was alone, that the beach, the house, his life were just his own, all to himself. But he kept walking. He had no option but to follow.

The sudden steepness of rock emerging from the water forced Miles to move toward the base of the cliff and stumble over shingle, following the path Sarah had taken. He continued over rock until it became sand once again and saw the smooth, curved beach of a small cove. Sarah had seated herself atop a large boulder which the tide still reached, but only just. She tilted her head back to enjoy the sunlight that bullied the clouds that now blew across the sky at speed, their shadows flowing over the land. Miles had to squint in the flaring sunlight.

Whatever lay beyond Sarah and the cove would have to wait. He would go no further than the boulder to tell her he had had enough for one day. He was hungry. He was fed up.

He took a seat next to her on the rock and watched her as she continued to bathe in what little warmth the sun allowed. Her slender hands spread behind her on the uneven rock as they supported her reclining weight. She knew her husband was beside her, but she had already given herself to the sun.

As Miles considered his wife and the sea around them, he felt they were adrift, stranded where nothing counted for anything. This place was not their house, it was not his office. It was nowhere. It was just the two of them alone together. They sat there in suspension. Without giving it much thought upon their arrival, the couple had managed to step out from their lives for a moment.

Tired.

Miles wanted to shake both her and himself and rush headlong into the gentle surf just as the spaniel had done, to let the sea wash away the sand and the dust. Then they would be able to shake themselves dry and shake themselves awake.

If you had sat long enough, the tide would have come back in and surrounded you. Then you would have been truly stranded.

'Do you love me?'

It came from him without any consideration or forethought.

Sarah opened her eyes and tilted her head toward him momentarily before returning herself to the sun and the breeze.

'Now why would you ask me a thing like that?' she said. 'We're married, aren't we?'

'Hardly the point.'

'Please, let's not have such a discussion right now. Enjoy the sun while it lasts,' she said.

'I want you to be happy,' he said to her profile, 'You know that.'

'I know that's what you want.'

'Talk to me,' he said, unwilling to let matters slide.

Sarah exhaled audibly.

'What?' said Miles, irritation in his voice.

'What?' said Sarah.

'Why are you sighing?'

'Just spare air.'

'I don't know what to say to you,' he continued, now facing the sea.

'There's nothing to say. You know there's nothing to say. It's all been said and it changes nothing.'

Miles brought his knees up closer to his chest and rested his hands over them, though he was instantly uncomfortable.

'Why... why do you always have to make it so difficult.' He looked up at the distant cliffs, 'We have enough problems.'

Sarah remained silent as Miles let go:

'I have done what I can. I am doing what I can, but it doesn't seem to be helping. You save your smiles for strangers, but have none for your own husband. I know things haven't been easy and you have had a rough time of late, what with your parents and all, but this is no way to go through life. Think about me for a change.'

'I do,' she said, with what Miles misinterpreted as a shameful tone, 'I think of you all the time.'

'Then think about us,' he said. 'We have a life ahead of us, together, even if it is just the two of us, so I really do think it's time to, well, pull yourself together. If you can't talk to me, talk to someone else. If not me, Alice, a friend, perhaps Doctor Phillips. Perhaps he could prescribe something. I don't know. Just... just snap out of it.'

'I want to,' she said, now looking at him. 'There isn't exactly a switch.'

'Perhaps there is.' Miles had succeeded in working himself up into a quiet rage. 'But I'm tired of it, my love, so sort it out. It's my life too, you know. You think I'm having a wonderful time? You think I'm coping?'

'You need somebody else,' she said quietly into her chest.

Miles dug his nails into the palms of his hands as he tensed. He emitted a clenched, suppressed roar that hung in his throat and he directed it towards the sky. He then turned to Sarah and saw her head hung low.

'Look at me,' he said. As she did not, he grabbed her chin with aggressive restraint, 'Look at me!' The strength in his hand gave her little choice. 'I have had enough, do y'hear? Enough.' He relaxed the grip he regretted and cupped her face, 'This is no good and I will not tolerate this any further. We are going to be happy, one way or the other.' He released her completely and knew now that he would get no more from her. 'I'm heading back to the car. If you want to, take your time. Take all the time you need. I'll wait for you.' Miles looked around, reassuring himself that they were alone on the beach. He kissed her abruptly on her cheek. 'It's okay. It'll be okay. It'll be fine.'

He left her to herself and walked back over the rocks and the shingle, looking back only once to see her still on the rock, unmoved. He felt more comfortable back on the main stretch of beach.

Further ahead, much further ahead, a dog ran into the water.

*

Old Miles could almost smell the salt in the air. He looked at her as if she were fifty feet away, not fifty years.

Sarah Morgan sat on a boulder beside the sea. Her hands were splayed out on the rough surface of the weathered stone as her straightened arms took the weight of her frame. She basked in the fleeting sunlight. The wind was stronger in the clouds and it broke them up and wiped them away over the sky to make way for the sun. She had her eyes closed and this was the strongest image Miles had retained from that day.

Aged but unfettered within his own recollection, the old man imagined her profiled body, her right leg raised, her foot placed flat upon the rock with which to steady herself. He found himself moving towards her with excitement. He could almost feel the same breeze that was now tugging at Sarah's hair as she removed her headscarf.

Beautiful and dead.

He found himself sitting beside her and she seemed as unconcerned about that fact as she ever had. As the sun was absorbed into the taut skin of her delicate features, Miles became fearful of disturbing the fidelity of the moment. He would not touch her no matter how much he wanted to. He merely wished to observe.

Sarah opened her eyes and tilted her head toward him before returning herself to the sun and the breeze.

'Now, why would you ask me a thing like that?' she said.

I didn't say anything.

'Enjoy the sun while it lasts,' she said.

I wanted you to be happy.

'I know that's what you want. I know that's what you want.' She exhaled audibly. 'Just spare air.'

I don't know what to say to you.

'There's nothing to say. It changes nothing.'

The old man brought his knees up to his chest and rested his hands over them.

I only did it because it felt like the thing to do.

Sarah remained silent, at the mercy of the memory.

I always put you first, but you never saw that. Nobody ever saw that.

'There's nothing to say.'

But there is, there is. So much to say. I was just always the one saying it. You always loved this beach, didn't you? Well, that's why I brought you here. It was meant for us and us only. A moment of respite, a moment of pause. The illusion of a happiness.

'There's nothing to say,' she said again.

The tide was going out further and further but the sun would remain shining for as long as Miles sat with her.

You got what you deserved.

Shadows of cloud sped along the beach away from them.

*

The walk back to the car had taken all of the energy and anger from Miles Morgan. He had looked back along the beach as he emerged up through the marram grass and saw the distant cliff, but his wife had yet to appear from around it, and so he resigned himself to a nap. The sun had warmed the interior of the car and he put the top back down before taking his place in the driver's seat. It was not long after reclining the seat that Miles then slept with the sound of the sea in his head.

Waking, he opened his eyes to find Sarah in the seat next to his.

'Oh,' muttered Miles as he shuffled into an upright position to bring his wife fully into view. As the world around him reformed, he fumbled for and located the lever that returned the back of his seat to its regular position. He massaged his eyes with finger and thumb, pressing too hard, and yawned.

Sarah remained silent.

Miles had misplaced his earlier annoyances and was now too tired for further confrontation.

'Enjoy yourself?' he asked, noting the stupidity of the comment immediately.

'It has been a much-needed change of scene,' she said and turned to him with a blank expression. 'I'd like to go home now.'

'Whatever you want.'

Miles turned the engine over and the car lurched forward in gear toward the edge of the dune. With a fumble of words and feet, Miles found the brake pedal as the engine stalled and the vehicle came to rest once again. The fender peeked out over the edge of the dune.

Miles cursed as he composed himself. He turned with a smile to Sarah, 'That could have been nasty.'

'Are you alright?' she asked calmly, 'You seem nervous.'

Miles laughed a slight laugh, 'Well, yes, I... you could say that. Didn't realise I'd left her in gear.'

'Hmm, well... Can we please go home now? It's getting rather cold.'

'Yes. Yes, of course.' He purposefully readjusted the gear stick and looked behind as he reversed onto the narrow road that would lead them home again. 'I'm surprised I left it in gear. Never mind, no harm done. Sorry if I scared you, dear.'

'I'm fine,' said Sarah. And she was.

As they made their way along the coast, the lateness of the afternoon brought with it aggressive swells and agitated waves. Sarah's view of the sea was blocked by her husband, so she looked out through her own window at the farmland and the bales of hay that littered the fields. She then turned her attention to the road ahead and at the tight bend that approached. She sighed as they rounded the blind bend without incident. Tired from the sea air and her own thoughts, she hung her head.

Having rounded the blind bend, Miles focused on the road ahead, and failed to recall whether he had left the car in gear or not.

Nineteen

Miles had made no attempt to avoid the hand that had slapped him, as it had been his own. Contact was made in three successive and competent blows against the side of his head, and he awaited a fourth. He sat there, numb. Rather than hit himself a fourth time, he raised his other hand, taking a generous drink from the crystal glass his dead wife had inherited only a few months before. He paid scant attention to the remnants of Sarah's wake that littered the living room. The unfinished teas, the unfinished drinks, the uneaten food; all lay about as if their owners had vanished into thin air, which they had more-or-less done so an hour before.

The funeral had made for an uncomfortable day all round, and Miles had asked the respectful mourners oh so nicely if they could just leave him alone. Not one person had thought better of lingering, and had left Miles to himself and to his grief.

Despite the brandy remaining in his glass, Miles took the bottle from the table next to his chair and poured. He knew he should not, so thought that perhaps he should.

Typical.

The phonograph player played in the far corner of the room. The wooden lid was up on its hinges and the needle scratched its way through the dust in the grooves. Sarah's Debussy record accompanied Miles in his drinking, and the tone of it began to degrade along with Miles. He rose slowly, as slow as the music played, and limped over to it, glass and crutch in hand. He wound the angled handle on the side of the box and, returning the silver arm to the outer rim, carefully placed the needle onto the disc once more. The piano soon found its way back into the room.

Now is not the time for music.

'On the contrary,' said Miles, 'it is always the time for music.' He turned away from the phonograph.

You're drunk.

'Leave me alone.'

You're not even thinking of her right now, are you? You're thinking of the church. Of what you said. I certainly am.

'Well, then so am I,' said Miles. He drank some more.

You were seated next to Alice, and I can't recall at what exact point, but...

'During a eulogy,' said Miles.

If you say so. You were sat next to Alice. You had been staring at your shoes for some time and she sobbed alongside you.

'Yes.'

And she said, 'I love you'. Yes?

'Yes, and I said it back. What else was to be said?'

But she had meant it for Sarah, not for you.

'I am aware,' said Miles. 'It just came out. I felt I had to say something, under the circumstances.' Miles placed his empty glass on the dining table, amongst the remains of the buffet.

I wouldn't worry about it. You muttered it, so I doubt she even heard you or is remotely concerned.

'Then why think of it?' said Miles, finding a discarded Cognac on the table and swirling it in the cup of his hand.

No reason. It just always stayed with me. It is interesting, all the funerals I have attended, I only ever have one memory of each, something that remains vivid at the expense of everything else. Remember the funeral of Sarah's parents? The arms...

'Yes,' said Miles, his recollection distracting him from the drink in his hand. 'Yes, the vicar. Afterward, Sarah went to him and she disappeared into his arms, those great white sleeves of his... well, whatever you call that outfit. He knew how to comfort her. She was enveloped by him.'

She was always surprised by the level of love people showed her, as if she hadn't earned it.

'Love isn't earned,' said Miles. He took a sip.

You have a lot to learn.

'Of course,' said Miles, raising his glass into the fading light of the day. He stood silent as he thought for a moment.

Those were trying times and you have nothing to feel bad about.

'She got what she deserved.'

Say it like you mean it.

'I only ever wanted to make her happy, though,' continued Miles, 'and I couldn't give her that.'

Nobody could. That's why she's gone. She knew it herself. She was selfish. Don't be so hard on yourself. Drink up.

'But...'

No. It's too late for that.

'But it's my...'

No. Don't think like that. It was her fault. She created this situation in the first place and the only reason you are in this position is because of her. If it wasn't for her, well, you may have been happy.

'No, but...'

We've been over this countless times. Dwelling on it won't help matters. You loved her too much, that's all you ever did. There is nothing to be done about it now. Blame yourself if you must, but it changes nothing.

'I must have been out of my mind,' said Miles.

You did what you could for her. Now she's gone.

Outside, a car door closed, followed by murmurs.

And then they came back. Together.

The doorbell rang.

*

Sometime later, Miles sat in the same chair with a drink poured for him by Kent, which then justified Kent's own continued consumption of the expensive Cognac he had brought. Neither of the men spoke to each other and Kent assumed his position on the chair at the far end of the sofa. He took a sip and glanced at Alice, who was staring at him from the centre of the sofa, perched. She placed her untouched tea back onto the table and turned her attentions to Miles.

'We...' she said, hesitantly, 'We just felt concerned that perhaps you shouldn't be alone this evening.'

'Are you afraid I'll do something stupid?' said Miles.

Kent tutted.

'No. It's not that,' Alice said. She exhaled and composed herself, fiddling with the crumpled kerchief in her hand. 'I just think we should be together today. We're still family, Miles.'

Miles remained silent. The temptation to confess all was driven by the alcohol, though he still had the awareness to realise that fact. He placed his brandy down onto the table next to him.

'You're not alone in this, Miles,' Alice said.

'Apparently not,' Miles said and glanced up at Kent. Kent drowned his words in his own drink.

Miles shuffled forward in his seat and raised himself up onto his unstable legs with the aid of the two crutches he produced from the side of the chair. He winced with the pain that his drinking had yet to numb. Alice half-stood with arms reaching out tentatively.

'It's okay,' said Miles. 'I just need to stand a while.' He walked a few steps before resting an elbow on the fireplace, a foot placed on the hearth. He felt the heat from the fire that had been made for him by mourners.

'It's been a long day,' Alice said.

'Yes, yes.' said Miles, with a degree of impatience. 'Sorry.'

'Can I get you anything?' she said.

'I am a terrible host,' said Miles. 'Can I get you anything? You've done so much already today. A tough day all round.'

Alice nodded, grateful at the belated acknowledgement of her own grief.

'It was a good turnout,' she said. 'I didn't realise Sarah knew so many people, had so many friends.'

'Neither did I,' said Miles. 'There was an address book... in the car. Must have fallen from her bag. I just used that.'

'She was a popular woman,' said Kent, 'as it turned out.'

'Well, why shouldn't she have been?' said Miles.

'I'm just saying,' said Kent.

'Why are you here?' said Miles, 'Do you have more respects you need to pay?'

'I am here with Alice.'

'So I see.'

He didn't waste any time, did he?

'Kent has been a support these last few days, Miles,' said Alice. 'A comfort.'

'Has he now,' said Miles, avoiding her eyes.

'Yes,' she said.

'Yes, Miles, I have. It has been a tough time for Alice,' Kent said, turning to Alice, 'but she is a strong woman. You should take a leaf out of her book.'

'What does that mean?' said Miles.

'It means...'

'It means,' interrupted Alice, feeling the friction pass between the two men, 'that you've both had quite enough to drink.'

'If you have something to say, Kent, perhaps you should say it plainly,' said Miles, drinking for effect.

'Now is not the time,' said Kent. 'Perhaps you should sit down before you fall down.'

'Perhaps,' said Miles, 'you should take your claws out of dear Alice, here. It is unkind to take such advantage of the bereaved.'

'Steady on,' said Kent through his teeth.

'Please...' said Alice. 'Miles, you really should sit. You're sweating.'

Miles looked down at the carpet. The pattern of it made him feel ill. Alice was talking again, but Miles never remembered what she had said. He did, however, remember staring at the fire and the flames that reached up to him.

'Thank you, Alice,' he said, interrupting her, 'but I really think I need some time alone.'

*

He had managed to position the car in the same spot overlooking the sea. As was the way at this time of day, the waters were restless and edging evermore over the sand as the tide came inward. The noise of the sea was accompanied only by that of the car's engine, which Miles made no attempt to silence.

As only such a couple could, both Sarah and Miles sat in silence and stared ahead at the world emerging from the horizon. Sarah even leaned forward, perhaps in the hope of being drawn in by what lay before her. They had the beach all to themselves. That day was not a day for others to share.

A restfulness presented itself to Miles this time, in contrast to their previous visit to that spot. The clarity he now felt pierced all previous memories and cleansed them in its wake. Miles even felt amused at how good it felt to be there, with her. It was ironic to him that the feeling of calm, the sense of clarity that he had craved throughout his life was what he now felt, now that it was all over between them. He found himself hoping that she would remain silent. Everything they had ever needed to say to each other had been said earlier that day. He just sat there and looked at his wife as the car began to roll forward.

And I turned to you and you put your hands out to the horizon.

*

'It's fine, it's fine, I like to do it.'

Alice took another tray full of plates and cups from the dining table through to the kitchen, leaving Miles at the fireplace and Kent still seated opposite him.

'You don't waste any time, do you?' said Miles, wincing with the pain that shot through him.

'It has indeed been a long day, Miles,' said Kent, 'And so I shall let you get away with that.'

'How kind of you.'

'Alice needs a shoulder to cry on.'

'And, lo and behold, enter stage right, Mr Kent Allsop suddenly enters the fray.'

'Put that expensive Cognac down before you hurt yourself, Miles. Or before I do.'

'Go away, Kent.'

'Why should I?'

'There's nothing here for you anymore,' Miles said with a wave of his crutch. 'She is no longer here.'

'Whatever you think you know, you don't.'

'And how's your wife? Poor Catherine must be wondering where you've got to?'

'I doubt that. Not since your little speech last week. She doesn't wish to be the subject of whispers anymore. She doesn't wish to be 'Poor Catherine' any longer.'

'You must be pleased.'

'We have reached an understanding.'

'And does Alice understand your understanding?'

'It's not for you to choose my friends, Miles.'

'Friends, it seems. You don't need friends.'

'You're right, I should leave.' Kent placed his empty glass down and slapped the palms of his hands on his knees.

'Yes, Kent, you should leave.'

Kent rose from his seat and adjusted his jacket. 'I'll be seeing you, Miles. Count on it.' He looked to the door as it opened.

'Well,' said Alice, 'that's the last of the dishes. What have you two been discussing?'

'We were discussing Catherine,' said Miles. 'Shame she couldn't make it today.'

Alice and Kent exchanged glances across Miles.

'She never really knew Sarah,' said Kent, 'and why go to a funeral if you don't have to, eh?'

'You said she was ill?,' said Alice.

'Yes,' said Kent, 'I did, didn't I.'

'Miles, I noticed that the car is here,' said Alice.

'Yes?'

'Well, why?'

'Where else would it be?'

'Well, I just thought you would have been rid of it, that's all. Considering,' Alice said.

'Considering what?' Miles said.

'You know fine well, Miles,' interrupted Kent. 'It just doesn't seem right.'

'Why, do you want that as well as the sister?' Miles said, nodding towards Alice as she stood by the door.

'We're leaving,' said Kent to Alice. 'There's no talking to him just now.'

'I'm sorry, Miles,' said Alice 'but I really need to go home now. We didn't come to upset you.'

Miles waved a dismissive hand.

'Call if you need anything,' she said, 'And call when you want to meet next. There are things to discuss. Get some rest, Miles.' She laid a hand on his shoulder before leaving the room. Kent thought better of saying anything further and followed her out. Miles sat immobile until the door slammed shut.

Alone at last.

Three brandies later, Miles closed the shutters of the living room. The phonograph was silent. He shuffled from the room, illuminated only by the dying fire, and made his slow way to the front door. There, he turned the large key until he heard the reassuring sound of the mortise locking bolt slide into position. He turned with the ringing of the telephone that sat on the small table in the hall.

It was probably Alice again. We'll never know.

It was too painful to bend down, and so, with a sharp yank, Miles whipped the cord from its socket. The remains of the ringing reverberated in the hall, dissipating into the rest of the house.

Alone, alone, alone at last.

Miles had tried to reach the back door to lock that too, but the pain of his fractures became too much and he sat at the kitchen table. Drunk and alone, Miles Morgan found himself upset by the thoughts in his head. He had been less than impressed with his performance of that day, and many others besides.

Silence. There was nobody but himself for company. Nobody to talk to but himself.

'You got what you deserved,' he said.

His whole body ached now, and he felt the age he would one day become. Enclosed in his house, away from the world, he wished away the years of loneliness that awaited him. He would sit there with what he could remember of his wife and the life that had now ended. He would think of the future that no longer awaited him. He would wait until his body had healed and then he would go for that walk he had always promised himself. He would walk the road to the bridge, view the world that remained and take it from there. Much like Sarah had when he had found her by the side of the road.

Twenty

Despite his working week in the city, Miles now felt like a trespasser whenever he found himself there. It had been several months since the move to the Borders and he rarely found himself enjoying city life as he once had. He did not share Kent's ability to drive while imbibed, and so the after-work socialising soon fell by the wayside. This was for the best, as he always felt the familiar tightness in his chest when he thought he should be at home with his wife rather than enjoying himself. Her days alone were increasingly taking their toll on both of them. Not that Miles would race home each day; he knew what morose mood now awaited him there, but a desire to be with his wife still felt as strong as it ever had. That was what kept him going.

Now that summer had arrived with its long days, the drive home was even more of a pleasure for him; it was time to himself. There were no colleagues and there was no misery around him, though one or the other awaited him at either end. Not being a large city, getting out of the centre was not a stressful task and he found himself on the coastal road in no time at all. The route home eventually peeled away from the coast and was not the quickest way, but it was that route that made his days worthwhile. Bookending his working day with the sea and salt air were his only identifiable pleasures at that time.

One Friday, at the tentative beginning of that summer, Miles found himself accompanied on his way home. Three days prior, during what had become a traditional lunchtime meeting between Miles and Kent, the sun and the hurried beer had taken a swift toll on Kent and had left him open to suggestion. As Kent could rarely tear himself away from the opportunities of the city, he had only visited Miles and Sarah on one occasion since the move, so now Miles felt confident in inviting him to join them for the weekend, to convince his friend of the good life that existed out of town. Kent's need to be liked by all, though usually less so by those he already knew well, helped sway him into accepting the offer and he agreed to sacrifice his weekend. Judging by previous conversations, it seemed likely that Kent would enjoy a weekend away from his own wife anyway.

The two friends made their way through the old town streets of the city with the top down and the car tolerated the cobblestones of the high street. Miles turned onto a more forgiving surface and onto the road that would take them straight out of the city. Being Friday, and being sunny if barely warm, the offices had emptied the workers into the bars and the world seemed to be loosening its tie as one. Both friends peered at the pubs they wished to be in. Kent raised his arm to uncover his wristwatch.

'This isn't good. Look,' he said as he waggled his wrist close to Miles' face. 'It's gin time and there seems to be a distinct absence of it in my hand. Tell me the house is stocked.'

'To the rafters.'

'Hmm, good, though I'll believe it when I see it. Look at them all, Miles, look at them. Life!'

'We'll take the coastal road, get some sea air into those lungs of yours and invigorate you,' Miles said with a gleeful smile.

'Oh, good Christ, that'll take an age, plus I really don't need the smell of fish to invigorate me,' Kent said.

Miles laughed a little laugh. Kent was the only person who brought about his laughter in those days. As they drove up a hill, they left the life of the city behind them and joined the traffic heading south, passing by houses and the kinds of bars that were not to be frequented by the likes of Miles and Kent. Miles had always lived and drunk by the rule that if you could not see into a bar from the outside, then it was best avoided.

'Perhaps a little something on the way?' asked Kent, with little hope in his voice but a hint of embarrassment. 'Perhaps one of your fisherman pubs or some such, hmm?'

'Fisherman pubs. Come on, let's just get home. Sarah will have dinner waiting,' said Miles. He lost his humour for a moment as he dwelled on Sarah's reluctance to host Kent. Miles tried not to think why, and now he too felt a sudden reticence at having Kent, or anyone, around the house, around Sarah, for more than an evening. How would they all cope, he had thought. Could Sarah maintain a veneer for an entire weekend?

Lost in his thoughts, Miles only registered the passage from city to country once the sea came into view. As with the bars of the city, the sea had the full attention of the silent men. If not for the seasonal harr over the water, the men would have seen calm waters stretch beyond. As was often the case, Miles tempted fate and oncoming traffic as he gave his attention to the sea more than he did to the road.

'See,' said Miles, 'Worth it.'

'All that water makes a man thirsty. Water, water everywhere, and not a gin and soda in sight,' quoted Kent, from someone he once heard quoting.

'You drink too much,' said Miles. And he did, yet Miles would point out such in jest rather than out of concern. Kent, like all good men, was his own man, and the advice of any other man mattered little. Miles could only criticise to a point before becoming hypocritical on such matters. He himself drank more than he should, but as much as was required. There had been a time, once firmly married, where he settled into the comfort of his security and the false assurances of marriage where he felt little need for alcohol, but that lasted only a year or so. Now, he drank as much as he had as a bachelor, but less socially. Kent, at least, was still a social drinker with no sign of letting up. As a man who needed constant company and managed to maintain such, drinking was as integral to his being as breathing, though he carried it well through life. Unlike Miles, Kent was never an angry drunk. On the rare occasion when Miles had put his mind to such thoughts, he could never quite think of a time where Kent had displayed any anger, any depth of emotion. If anything were true of Kent, as far as he was concerned, it was that he was more of a danger to himself when sober than when drunk. The apparent lust for alcohol that Kent was now displaying with heightened desperation was rooted in need as much as want.

'You drink too much.'

'And yet I sit here sober,' said Kent, almost overlapping Miles' comment. He had heard the remark enough from his wife and it never failed to irritate.

The journey would take a further hour at Miles' regular speed and much of it succumbed to the comfortable silence only shared between men. Their eyes were drawn to the bright white of the Victorian building that emerged from the brow of the hill they were ascending and pierced the vista for their attentions. From here on, Miles noted, the country became comfortably wild, with the city and its satellites far behind them. It was here that the tightness within Miles loosened without any conscious thought. But only for a while. It usually returned when he came to the bridge that stood hunched over the river, the final marker of any note before home. The inn and the bridge bookended his peace of mind.

Kent broke the silence as the cliff-top inn came into view.

'There!' he said, pointing. 'A fine establishment if ever I saw one. I insist you pull over at once. Dragging me out here into no man's land, the least you could do is buy your one friend a drink.'

Kent's eyes remained fixed upon the three-storey building as it passed by, the sun reflecting from the whitewash, burning away all detail of the stonework and temporarily blinding him. Regardless, he held his gaze until his neck could no longer take the strain.

'You fiend,' he said with quiet aggression. 'You heartless savage.'

'We'll be home soon,' said Miles as he shifted in his seat.

'Put your foot down then and we'll be home sooner. How dare you condemn this magnificent machine to sensible driving.'

Miles felt the smile on his face become false and tired and functional. He wished to talk, really talk with his friend while he had him cornered.

'Did your Mrs put her foot down when you asked her for a weekend off to come out and play?'

'HA! 'Ask', it seems,' roared Kent. 'We're not all married-married, like some. I told her what I was doing. I merely told her you had insisted and that it was you she should protest to.'

'Thank you.'

'Welcome.'

'But, really...'

"But really,'' imitated Kent as he swivelled in his seat to half-face Miles, 'but really? Really, it's all downhill now. Courting that woman was an uphill struggle. Now, well, downhill is always easier than uphill. We are in mutual, if unspoken, agreement about our current situation. My going away this weekend will provide familiar and much-needed space between the two of us.'

Miles was taken aback by his friend's willingness to discuss anything approaching a serious note.

'But don't worry about me,' Kent continued, 'It is what it is. I have other irons in the fire. Well, an iron.'

'Oh, really? You never said.'

'I say now.'

'Who is this poor unfortunate?'

'She is a wonder. She is as fine a specimen as I could ever hope for. But she is unaware, as yet, of my intent.'

Kent was slipping from humour toward truth. It was the only way he would ever reveal anything of true value to another, Miles had thought.

'So?' said Miles, 'Who is she?'

'She... is... of little concern to a man who denies his mentor a drink on such a day.'

'Oh, come on.'

'All in good time.'

'I take it from your shame that I know this person.'

'Ask no more questions and I will tell you no more lies.'

Miles gave up temporarily, 'You fiend.'

'Let me just say that the situation is delicate and that obstacles must be overcome,' Kent said. He now seemed serious as he looked at Miles, as Miles watched the road ahead. 'There are... complications.'

The sun sank in the blue sky as it guided Miles along the coast. Silence had once again smothered the conversation of the two men and they enjoyed the scenery in different ways. The turn from the coast approached and, as ever, Miles imagined travelling on southward, to something or somewhere unknown, but he had love to go home to and go home he must. The turn onto the narrow road west signalled a daily defeat. What mood would she be in, he pondered. Would she seem happy and adopt the energy and social grace that she mustered for all but him? Would she let the Sarah he loved emerge and put Kent in his place with humour and strength of character? Or would she be herself?

Tall hedges lined either side of the winding road and funnelled the car between yellow fields of rape seed toward patches of green and woodland. Miles chose that narrow road for the bends and blind brows that challenged the engine.

'That's my boy,' said Kent as he and Miles were pushed back into their seats. Up ahead was a brow and Miles kept the car in the middle of the road as he approached it. Each day he took the same chance. 'Steady,' said Kent.

As the car neared the brow, the landscape of fields and the Cheviot Hills came into view and the shallowness of the road's dip gave any driver plenty of warning of what lay before them. Ahead was a tractor turning out of a field and into their path, also heading west. He slowed the car firmly, reducing to a speed that matched that of the tractor and to within a few feet of the plough that trailed behind it.

'Swine!' hollered Kent to the tractor driver.

'Sorry if I scared you,' said Miles.

'Nonsense. If you'd gone a little faster we may now be ahead of him.' Kent turned his voice to the tractor once again, 'Give way!'

The tractor impeded their progress for less than a mile before turning off the road toward a set of buildings set back in a field of dirt. Miles once again accelerated but, with the winding of the road ahead, kept the vehicle at a comfortable speed. Unlike his friend, he was in no hurry to reach their destination. The darker clouds that spanned the sky between them and the hills ahead seemed fitting for Miles. He waited for his friend to comment.

'Oh, wonderful,' obliged Kent. 'More rain. Turn around. Take me home.'

'It's fine. We're not going anywhere this evening anyway. Tomorrow will be fine and we can fish the river.'

'Rain or shine, we're fishing that river, okay? A little rain will help anyway. It's been too long.'

'It has indeed,' said Miles. 'Remember the last fish you caught?'

'So many, dear boy, please narrow down. Oh wait, yes, the bag.'

The previous year, the two friends had fished the Tay, as far north from the city as they were now south. They had enjoyed a day in the sun in a boat that belonged to a colleague of Kent's, and the afternoon had been one more of beer than of fish. Kent's casting had become haphazard and his line had found its way into the weeds of the bank, where it snared a piece of string. The string was wrapped around a cloth bag that dragged heavy in the water, threatening to snap Kent's delicate line. Rather than row to the bag, Kent opted to wind in the catch and untangle the hook. With drunken roughness, Kent had yanked the line and bag from the water into the boat and untied the string. Within the cloth was, much to their surprise, a respectable trout. 'Ahh, you'll never believe it. I got one!' Kent had proclaimed to his friend and to the world around them. To get a better look, Kent had unfurled the cloth to let the fish fall onto the tiny deck between them. Much cursing and laughter filled the air as the guts of the fish stained the decking and assaulted their noses. The fish had already been caught, gutted, and for whatever reason, lost to the river once more.

'Oh wait, yes, the bag,' said Kent. 'What a stinker. At least I caught one. I should never have let you throw it back, you jealous little specimen.'

'But the stench. Who knew how long it had been there,' Miles said through chuckles.

'I should be so lucky this time. Tomorrow we dine on salmon. What about this evening, what does the good wife have prepared?'

'I don't know. Gin?'

'Such elixir is all we need.'

The car advanced toward the thick darkness of the clouds ahead, the darkness that exists only in an otherwise blue sky after a day of summer sun.

'It truly is a beautiful part of the land,' said Kent in all seriousness. 'I can almost understand why you moved out here.'

'Yes. Yes, it is beautiful. I always loved the Borders, ever since I was a boy. Its neither-here-nor-there quality makes one feel separated from everything else. First time in my life I feel in the right place.'

'You know why?' said Kent, 'Because you were born old. You've finally reached the age and stage of life that suits you.'

'Really?' said Miles, mocking half-heartedly. 'And yourself?'

'Me? I've always been comfortable in myself. I was born ageless and have remained so ever since and shall forever more.' A laugh escaped Miles. 'Mock me at your peril. I am life.'

'You are sober and talking like a drunk. You always talk like a drunk when you are sober. A unique quality.'

'How dare you suggest I am unique as if the thought has just occurred to you. There is no doubt.'

'So, you see me as an old man then?'

'A mature man who needs little in life but never knew so until now. I am happy for you, that is what I am trying to get through to you. What... what is that?'

Miles had produced a silver hip flask from his inside pocket and now brandished it at his friend.

'An elixir,' said Miles, 'A reward for admitting I was right to move out here. It is also perfect for you — smooth, well balanced, and a mature 18 years old.'

'You fiend. All this time. Give it here this instant,' Kent said, taking the flask before Miles could give it to him. Kent unscrewed the cap and let it rest on its hinge as he raised the flask to his nose. He breathed in long and hard, 'Ahh, that's the ticket.' He raised it to his lips but paused. 'This is the best bit; anticipation of assured joy.' Kent closed his eyes, 'And I never admitted any such thing.' He drank.

Miles enjoyed watching his friend enjoy the drink. Once Kent had, he returned it into Miles' waiting hand.

'To fiends and friends,' said Kent.

'Indeed,' said Miles. He savoured a more modest drink and returned the flask for his friend to finish. 'Here comes the rain.'

The distant sun was low enough to shed light on them as they drove beneath the rain cloud. The rain fell heavily but sporadically on the windscreen of the car and Miles had to stop to put the roof up. Kent laughed and drank as he sat and watched his friend struggle with the mechanism.

'Quickly, my man, I didn't order whisky and water!' shouted Kent.

'You could always help.'

Back on the road, Miles imagined the nearby river swelling with the downpour, making more room for the fish they would catch the next day. Water would rise up the reeds, over the soil of the riverbank and waterlog the westerly fields of wheat. He did not share his companion's disdain for the rain, he shared his wife's comfort in it. It gave them reason to shelter and remain in their home, together, abandoned by the world and left to themselves and each other. Their home was a good home to shelter within, and he always remembered times of rain better than any other.

The car followed the road as it dipped to a sharp S-bend and Miles slowed to a crawl so as to avoid a large pool of water from stalling the engine. Once through, he accelerated up the incline and along the mile of winding road that led them to the narrow bridge that usually caused the tightening in his chest. The whiskey within him now kept the tightness at bay, or at least disguised it. The car slowed again as they arched over the swelling river.

Once over, the two companions noticed the figure further ahead, without a word shared between them. To Miles, the dread that accompanied the sight intensified as they approached it. He could not identify what was wrong with what he saw, but knew that it was wrong, as if his own mind was withholding information from him. Any calm brought about by the whiskey now evaporated.

What he saw was a person, a woman, under-dressed for the rain. The woman had obviously been caught out in the downpour, but that was not what made him nervous. He slowed the vehicle by releasing pressure from the accelerator as he tried to process the familiarity of the female figure; a slender figure in a familiar summer dress he had never paid much attention to before now.

She was walking with little purpose alongside the tall beech hedge that towered above. There was nowhere particularly safe to stop the car on that section of road, but Miles had slowed to first gear as he drove by the woman and he would have felt obliged to stop even if she had been a stranger to him. As the two men looked from the car to the woman, she turned her head to them, but exhibited no change in her blank expression, no acknowledgement. It was the first time Miles had seen his wife as the stranger she had become.

'Oh,' said Kent, 'Fancy that. She must've got caught out.' Even he did not sound convinced by his words.

Miles said nothing and brought the car to a halt just ahead of her. He left the car and approached his wife with caution. She stood silent, without greeting, her whole being stood lank; a wet rag wrung out. Miles looked at her diverted eyes. The window of the passenger-side door wound down and Kent's head popped out, though neither Miles nor Sarah looked to him.

'Hullo,' said Kent, 'Get caught out, did we? Never mind.' Kent's words hung in the air as he stared at the couple, realising all was far from well.

'Sarah?' said Miles. He knew the rain was not to blame for her state and that she was more wet than she had any reason to be in that weather. 'Sarah, it's... it's fine. We'll get you home, get you dry.'

She looked at the car then back to the ground, muttering something.

'Sorry?' said Miles.

'I'll get your seat wet,' she said softly.

Miles hesitated and considered the possibility that she may want to walk, that she may want to be alone. Her fragility inspired a rush of confused thoughts in him and he started back toward the car.

'Okay, well, if you're sure,' he said. He then considered how ridiculous it would be to let her go. And the leather of his seats would wipe dry. 'No, look, come along. You're...' he felt it best not to mention too much of her state. 'Come along. No need to walk now we're here. I have the car.'

The leaves of the beech made the most noise in the breeze, and what rain there had been had ceased. To Miles, the breeze was refreshing, but against Sarah's body the breeze froze the wet cotton around her and she began to shiver now. She folded her arms without thinking of it.

'It's okay?' she asked of him, barely audible.

'Yes, of course it's okay.' He guided her with an arm around her shoulders and she felt narrow and breakable to him. The passenger door opened and Kent knew it was best for him to sit in the rear. As he took his place, he tilted the passenger seat back, and it pressed against his long legs, but he made no attempt to adjust the seat as Miles guided Sarah down onto it, gently. All Kent saw of her was wet hair and slender neck. The rest of her was obscured by the seat. She did not acknowledge Kent. The few seconds it took Miles to open his door after closing hers were all it took for Kent to realise he would need to return to the city for the weekend. It was also the same amount of time in which Miles slipped comfortably into denial once more.

The car returned to the road and Miles felt the need to speak once he ran out of gears to change.

'Appalling weather,' he said. He glanced at his wife and looked her over as she stared out at the world. She was sodden, but it was the dirt on her legs and arms and dress that made his mind race. 'Appalling.' He thought of the weather and then of the river. He thought of the bridge and what it would take to fall from it, rather than to jump from it. He would think of little else until a fresh day arrived to wipe the slate clean once again.

As they reached the house, Miles drove the car straight to the front door. It gave his wife a quick retreat. By the time he made it to her door she had already stood from the car and he walked her to the house. She stood alone as he fumbled and then produced the key and let her inside. He turned to see his friend taking Sarah's place at the front of the car, leaving the door open. Miles approached Kent slowly as he considered the situation.

'Perhaps I should...' said Kent, unsure of completing the sentence.

'Yes, perhaps,' said Miles. He looked over the roof of the car, unable to look at his friend. 'I'm sorry.'

'Nonsense,' said Kent, 'It's not your fault. None of my business, really.'

'No,' said Miles.

Both he and Kent were unsure as to what part Miles was agreeing with.

'I'll wait here, if you like,' said Kent.

'No, no. Look, come along inside anyway. I'll see she gets settled first, see how she is, and then run you to the station. There's a train just after eight.'

'Are you sure?'

'Don't worry about it. She's gone upstairs. She'll need a bath anyway. There's plenty to drink.'

Moments later, Kent was in his element at the drinks cabinet. Miles found himself upstairs, looking in through the doorway of an empty bathroom at an bath. In the bedroom, he found wet clothes seeping water onto the floor and Sarah had her back to him as she lay covered by bedding with only her hair visible. He stood silent as he considered his love for her.

Twenty-One

'She's sleeping. She'll be fine once she's slept.' Miles had said it, but he did not believe a word of it.

He accepted the drink that Kent handed to him from the drinks cabinet and they sat across from each other at the dining table. Both men faced the bay window. The view was of nothing but trees and scrub that Miles would one day clear when the fancy took him. For now, he felt sudden exhaustion and desired nothing more than to sit there, to drink and dissolve.

'Does she need a doctor again?' said Kent.

'I don't know,' said Miles. He took a drink. The brandy set fire to his chest. 'Don't worry about leaving tonight. I doubt she'll surface until the morning. Things will be better then.'

'Only if you're sure. Perhaps you should have some time alone.'

'As we always do? I suspect your company may help. I'd like it if you stayed.'

'Whatever you need,' said Kent. 'But take some time to speak with her. She's not well.'

'I don't wish to discuss it any further.'

'A sure sign that you need to, if ever there was one.'

'We've talked. She is her own woman. Well, I've talked and she's listened and eventually come around to common sense.' Miles caught his reflection in the window, 'But then, sooner or later, she sinks. I just can't snap her out of herself at times like these. I love the woman, but there are times I want to shake her. Shake her until she snaps out of it.'

'She must be bored. Perhaps that's what it is. Nothing to do but go out for walks in the rain.' Kent was treading carefully.

It dawned on Miles that the two of them were having two separate conversations. Kent had not noticed the dirt on Sarah's body. He had probably not even seen her face. He had not seen how wet she had been.

'It wasn't raining that much,' said Miles, to himself.

'She just needs some excitement in her life,' said Kent, treading less carefully. 'A distraction. She's been through the wringer lately. So have you.'

'And yet I cope.'

'It's different for men.' Kent drank. 'Are you?'

'What?' said Miles, still looking through his reflection.

'Coping. We've never really talked about things.'

'No. No, I suppose we haven't.'

'This place, Miles, it...'

'This is her home now,' Miles said, halting Kent's train of thought. 'This is where we are.'

Kent raised his hands in surrender, 'Alright then, how about a holiday. Get away from it all, just the two of you.'

'We are away from it all. It is just the two of us. We moved here to this bloody place to get away from it all; her bloody home. No. I don't know what she needs, because she doesn't know herself.'

'She's a magnificent woman, Miles. Don't let her go to waste.' Kent did not mean for it to come off sounding like a warning, but it had and he knew it, purely by how Miles now looked at him. Kent knew his friend would be a bad drunk soon enough if they remained on the present course.

'I know my wife, thank you,' said Miles.

Do you?

'Of course you do,' said Kent.

'And perhaps you should concentrate on your own for a while.'

'I didn't mean anything by it,' said Kent, busy thinking of how to diffuse Miles. 'Seems like you and I could both do with... reassessing.' For want of a better word, thought Kent.

As they spoke between long silences, Miles thought of his wife above them, directly above them, in their bedroom. Was she sleeping? Was she listening? The ceiling was high above and the floors of the house were as thick as any wall. Even if she could here them talking, Miles suspected she would hear murmurs at best. But he wanted her to listen and to hear. His one life was now consumed with concern for her and he doubted she knew this, as she was consumed only with herself. It is not fair, Miles had thought, I didn't marry this. He raised the drink to his mouth.

The view through the window was the same, though night had since fallen. The friend across the table from him was the same friend. The taste of brandy was convincing. The reflection that stared back at him was not the same. The dark of night reflected the old man Miles now was and he set the glass down onto the table. He wondered if he would find Sarah there, upstairs, as she had been. He looked at his reflection in the bay window. Even in his mind, in his own version of his life, he felt physically deflated. Life had drained him of energy and there was little left of him now. He looked to Kent and wondered if Kent was anything more than a fragment. He looked so young, but they had not considered themselves young back then.

Miles raised himself from the table and walked over to the window. The rain of that day had cleared and had left a high cold sky above them. The brightness of the moon penetrated the small white clouds that failed to obscure it in their passing haste. Looking at the faint outlines of the surrounding trees outside, Miles saw the wind but he could not hear it.

Standing alone, he could not recall a time of life where he had not been counting down, as if each experience would be the last of its kind. He had been this way since retiring and he had not expected to live this long. But now it all felt like the closing chapter. He did not know how many moons he had seen so bright, and he was reluctant to avert his gaze from the one he now recalled, because he may never see one again. Behind him, reflected in the window, was Kent as he had been. The house was as it had been when it had been a home, and the old man no longer knew if here was now.

Did it really matter? Any of it?

He doubted that the piano which filled the room had played at that time; neither of the men would have felt it appropriate to play music and Kent certainly had little interest in any such emotional expression. Regardless, the old man heard it. Gentle and low, it reverberated in the room, in his head, just as the piano of the gallery had done. Would do. He now felt the melody. He felt soothed as he looked out of the window through his own image.

And you did stay and I never really thanked you.

'Of course I stayed,' came Kent's voice.

I knew you would, I just thought you stayed more for her sake than for mine.

'I did, didn't I?'

I suppose. Miles hung his head. I'm very tired.

'You think too much,' Kent's voice said.

The old man smiled to himself.

Perhaps.

'What is done is done.'

You always did talk in clichés.

'These are your words, not mine.'

Perhaps.

Miles detested the moment honesty penetrated his mind. He knew the illusion would be shattered eventually, but he liked to maintain it for as long as possible. He had to concentrate to remember what they had actually discussed. He could fill the blanks with dishonesty if he so wished. He could ride it out in the hope of sparking some genuine recollection. The more he thought, the more he felt confused. His mind felt like a dead space.

'Don't worry about it,' said Kent. 'It's all in the past and in the mind. It's not as if I'm dead or anything like that.'

Perhaps you and I should talk.

'Perhaps you and I should talk.'

But we don't talk anymore.

'You don't talk. You don't listen, either. Dear boy, it's all just a matter of perspective. Perhaps you could benefit from mine.'

The old man thought of Sarah upstairs. He thought of her in the kitchen, talking to him. He thought of her eyes staring at him at the moment of her death.

'Now, now,' said Kent. 'You cut that out, do you hear? No good ever comes of it. There are other things to think of in life. Why can't you just choose to be happy for a change?'

I know, why can't I? Well, you know why.

'Don't let such thoughts dominate your life.'

Miles looked down at the hand that held a cane where the brandy had been a moment ago.

Too late.

The memory of Kent hung in the air, and the old man swore to himself that he could taste the brandy.

You stayed. You stayed, but not for the whole weekend. Is that right?

'It feels right.'

Sarah slept through until the Saturday, I remember. She woke before either one of us and she had made an effort with the breakfast for once. I think she wanted you around to avoid being alone with me.

'A fair assessment.'

And you seemed more than happy to ignore the issue at hand.

'Be fair. How was I to know things were as bad as they were. She was your wife, not mine.'

I remember that breakfast now. You were both up before me, as if nothing had happened. You were looking at one another. You were smiling up at her as she smiled down, pouring tea for you. Why she never looked at me like that, well, it could have made all the difference, I suppose. She saw me and her smile flickered. That stayed with me. You were sat in my chair, your back to the pantry, and so I sat on the bench with my back to the wall. I wanted to keep my eye on her. Perhaps on you too. I poured my own tea. Oh yes, she had asked if I'd wanted tea and I'd said yes, of course. She pointed to the pot. I poured it myself. Any shame she had felt the previous day had gone, or had at least been masked by the night's sleep. She wasn't upset in any way, she was simply numb again. There'd been a chap at my work like that — what was his name now — never mind, it will come. You certainly kept her afloat that weekend, Kent. More than I ever could.

'Only because she felt guarded. She was at ease with you. She could be herself with you.'

Phillips? Was that the chap?

'Focus.'

Yes. She spent most of that breakfast hovering around the kitchen. Didn't really eat much. She did the dishes as you and I ate. I remember her at the sink, at the window. I knew she wasn't as she seemed but I didn't say anything. She ignored it that day, and so did I. What did we do that day?

'I don't know, but I left on the afternoon train. We certainly didn't fish, that is for certain.'

That's right. But you had spoken with her. I was out in the garden, waiting for you at the car, and I saw you both through the kitchen window, talking.

'People talk.'

Yes. And she smiled for you but not for me. You always did take me for a fool. Both of you.

The old man turned to an empty room and the sound of his own voice was absorbed by it. He was alone. Music on the record player was barely audible to him but it was there, keeping him company. The house was still, as it always was now, with empty rooms above him.

Twenty-Two

It was a quiet street in a quiet village and the red brick bungalow stood out amongst the stone cottages. The taxi cab had driven by the house before reaching a dead-end. The crumbling tarmac of the road gave way to the earth and grass of an expanse of green common, with nothing beyond it except the countryside and the hills of the horizon. The driver reversed and came back around until the passenger side aligned perfectly with the path that divided the front lawn leading up to the glazed door.

'Just a moment, please,' said the old man to the driver.

Miles peered through the window at the house. He considered what could be the vague shape of either Alice or Kent, or perhaps just another reflection in the large double-glazed window to the left of the front door. He could trust his eyes as much as he could his mind.

Before that mind began to wander, he struggled to hear how much he owed the driver and turned his attention to the array of red numbers on the meter to see for himself. There were too many of them and he asked the driver which numbers represented the fare. The driver pointed as he repeated slowly, again. Having explained the benefits of digital metering to the old man, the driver finally received his money and got out to help him from the other side. After a heave and a thank you and a goodbye, the driver abandoned him.

Miles admired the geraniums and daffodils that lined his walk along the path up to the door. It opened before he found the doorbell. Thankfully, it was Mrs Allsop who stood before him, and her surprise was masked by a tentative smile. She stood and waited for Miles to explain himself.

'Ah,' he said, recognising her out loud, 'There you are. I mean, you are home.'

'Yes.' She folded her arms as the chill of the air found her.

'I thought I would come and see you, rather than call,' he said, hesitantly. 'I do hope you don't mind me calling unannounced.'

'Why would I mind? He's here, you know. He's in the garden if you want me to get him.'

'I've come to see you both.'

'Well, come on then, in with you.'

She took hold of his arm and helped him up the step into her home before closing the door after him. The brown Paisley-patterned carpet of the narrow hallway ran the length of the house. To the right, it divided two bedrooms before reaching what was a side door to the garage, and to the left, Miles was guided through to a modest kitchen and on to an adjoining conservatory. There was no sun, but it was bright.

'This wasn't here last time, was it?' Miles asked, doing his best.

'No, I suppose not. We had this put in, oh when was it... four years ago? Perhaps five? It is a wonderful thing.'

The heat of the glass room struck Miles as comfortable. 'Quite the little sun trap,' he said.

'Just a shame there's never any sun. This is quite a surprise, Miles. To what do we owe the pleasure. Please, sit.'

She guided him gently into the oversized cushioned seat of a bamboo chair that was too low for him. He did not complain, but he was not looking forward to the process of getting out of the chair later. He lay his cane on the floor within a comfortable reach, and threw his hat down onto the bamboo coffee table that stood before him. He noticed the paperback splayed out next to where his hat had landed; some tattered, faded romance with a broken spine. The result of multiple considered readings.

'I'm not intruding, I hope,' he said.

Out of his element, he felt congenial and exposed, and Alice Allsop knew it.

'Never,' she said, standing over him, enjoying her view of the old man consumed by floral upholstery. 'Let me get you some tea.' Without further conversation, she moved back to the kitchen and out of the range of Miles' hearing.

He sat staring out at what he could see of the back garden, which was dominated by orderly rows of soil and the leaves of growing vegetables. As Miles scanned the far wall, he noticed Kent on his knees, tending to something or other. After a moment, Kent stood with some difficulty and made his way along the far side of the garden path before disappearing from view toward the adjoining garage. He was unaware of the eyes on him and it pleased Miles to see him sedate.

Miles was now comfortable and his breathing settled to a consistent rhythm. A tray of china cups and tea came into view as Mrs Allsop placed it onto the glass surface of the low coffee table.

'He'll be here in a moment, he's just washing his hands,' she said, occupying a matching chair across from Miles. She exhaled, 'So...'

Miles preferred to wait for Kent before indulging in any conversation of note, 'You look well,' he said. To Miles, she looked out-of-context.

'You act as if you haven't seen me for years,' she responded. 'What has it been, two days since you threw us out into the night?'

'You showed yourselves out, as I recall it.' Miles had not come to apologise. 'Seems longer than two days.'

'Not for me,' she said.

'I see himself is indulging in physical labour.' Miles gestured toward where Kent had been in the garden and Mrs Allsop tried to ignore the comment.

'Is everything alright?' she asked. 'You've been managing? I was going to drop by later and see how... What? What is it?'

Miles was staring at her and the slight smile that had found its way onto his face was making her nervous.

'You're a good woman, Alice Allsop, and like every good woman, you are wasted on bad men.'

'Kent is a good man,' she said. 'You are both good men, you just lost sight of one another over the years. Be nice, he's not your greatest fan right now.'

'Well, relationships are finite things, aren't they. Not built to last. Familiarity and long life have a habit of coming between people in the end.'

'And you've certainly lived a long life.'

'But what's the bloody point if you can't remember any of it?'

'All we can do is take each day is it comes, Miles. You need to learn to look ahead instead of behind.'

'A little late for that.'

'I'm always here, you know,' she said, with a smile that reflected his fading one.

'And I don't know why you are.'

Pain struck him suddenly and his eyelids clamped shut with it. He pressed his forehead into the palm of his hand. Mrs Allsop leaned forward slightly.

'Have you taken your pills this morning?' she said.

'Yes.'

'All of them?'

'Yes.' He raised his head and sat back in the chair. 'Is it meant to hurt so much?'

'I'd be worried if it didn't. Pain is a warning.'

It was in these moments of suffering and discomfort, she thought, that the old bugger revealed himself and revived her sympathies for him. She lay a hand on his knee to steady him.

As they sat there together, Miles wondered if she would remove that hand if she were to learn of the things that even he had forgotten about himself. He no longer had the facilities to be an honest man, with himself or with those around him. He could never lay himself bare in the way Sarah had laid herself bare to him way back when. Such truths felt dishonest to him.

'I did love her, you know,' he said. 'Your sister.'

'We all did,' she said, without hesitation. Then she did hesitate before saying, 'even if she could be a difficult soul. She lost God from her heart, and once that happens, well...'

Miles wanted to avoid God whenever He accompanied Mrs Allsop, as He so often did.

'She had a weight upon her,' he said, 'and it was too much to bear.'

'You shared the burden. You coped.'

'Did I?'

'Your faith was stronger than hers. It matters.'

'I have out-lived my faith.'

There was a silence.

'Hindsight,' said Mrs Allsop, 'is, well, hindsight is a bloody pain in the backside, to be frank.' She rarely spoke so, but when she did it was jarring to those who knew her well.

'All I ever wanted to do was help her,' said Miles.

'Well those were different times, Miles. We should all remember that. Nobody really saw things from your perspective, did they? I have tried to make that up to you over the years.'

'I know.'

'And I know you blame yourself. That is enough for me.'

Miles permitted another smile, 'I think this is the most we've ever spoken about her.'

'You've never wanted to talk before.'

'I never saw the point,' he said, swallowing the rest of his words. 'Look, did she ever speak to you about anything that she wouldn't have spoken to me about?'

'How do you mean?'

'Things that sisters would share. Private things. Private thoughts. Confidences.'

There was another, notable silence.

'Miles, I loved my sister, but I admit she could be difficult in some ways. She was always sensitive. Far too sensitive. We weren't always as close as I would have liked, but I was certainly supportive of her. There was little you could do right, let's just say that.'

'Those your words or hers?'

'She was afraid of you.'

'What?'

'Yes. She said so once, but she never said why, which was typical.'

'Why on earth would she be scared of me?'

'She was not a well woman, Miles, and that was nobody's fault. Circumstances conspired against a fragile mind, that's all.'

'I think of her constantly,' Miles said to himself.

'I know you do.'

'And I need to. It's a strange thing, but I find it difficult to remember any happy times. There must have been some, surely.'

'At our age it all seems somewhat pointless dwelling the way you do,' she said, 'I just wished you'd moved on.'

'To what? She was my responsibility.'

'She was her own woman.'

'She was broken because I broke her,' Miles said.

'Don't.'

'I see her,' he said, softly, 'as she was when she died, but I no longer know if it is an actual memory or some dream I once had.'

And Miles saw her then, wide eyes looking through him.

'She's peaceful,' he said.

Alice Allsop sat still in her own silence.

'Dream or otherwise,' continued Miles, 'she seems peaceful. That's all I had ever wanted for her.'

Alice Allsop's eyes coloured red.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'Ignore me, I just wish I could remember.' But he did remember and he remembered Sarah saying, 'Wait.'

'Perhaps, in the end, some things are best left forgotten,' said Mrs Allsop. She quickly extracted a paper tissue from the sleeve of her sweater and dabbed her nose. She was not a woman easily upset and, as such, Miles had always felt comfortable in pushing her to the brink of her boundaries.

'But how do you know unless you remember them first?' said Miles. 'Please, I didn't come here to upset you.'

Heavy footsteps only Mrs Allsop could hear approached from the kitchen.

Kent entered the room. 'If you upset her, Miles, I shall upset you, do you hear me?' He spoke loud enough for Miles to hear him clearly.

Tall but dishevelled, Kent had benefited from his gardening and looked vibrant as he took a seat next to his wife. His hands may have been clean, but the rest of him, his torn slacks, his old shirt opened just enough to reveal the vest underneath, were not. His white hair hung down over his forehead and he made no attempt to brush it back. Some hair clung to sweat and he looked like a man refreshed by his labours. 'Talking to us now, are we?'

'Dear,' warned Mrs Allsop.

'Well, never mind,' said Kent, 'I no longer have the energy to throw you out. Shall I be mother?' He grabbed hold of the china teapot with a clean hand. 'What brings you here, then?'

'I've been thinking,' said Miles.

'Oh, good Lord, don't do that,' interrupted Kent.

'Oh, do be quiet,' said Mrs Allsop, exasperated already. It was apparent she was keen to discover what had brought the old man to her home.

'You're a good woman,' Miles told her, and they shared a smile.

'Hear hear,' muttered Kent and raised a pointed finger towards his wife. 'Bloody good samaritan.'

Miles had much to say and struggled through many confused thoughts in an effort to locate the words he had mulled over in the taxi. He turned his attention to his irritated friend, 'As I said, I have had time to think. I shall be out of your hair soon enough, but I just wanted to make sure that I got to see you again before I go away next week.'

'It's a home, Miles,' said Kent, 'not a prison.'

'So you'll visit then?'

'My wife shall.'

'Regardless,' said Miles, 'there are papers to sign and the house still needs clearing.'

'Miles,' said Mrs Allsop, 'please, we've been over this. It is not for you to concern yourself with. We will take care of it.'

'And you didn't need to come all the way out here to say that,' said Kent.

'Perhaps not,' said Miles, reaching for the cup and saucer that Kent handed to him, 'but I felt I should come to you for a change.' The china rattled with the tremor of his hand.

'And upset my wife in the process,' said Kent.

Miles looked to Mrs Allsop with concern.

'Please,' she said, 'don't give it a moment's thought. I'm fine, really.'

'Perhaps he should,' said Kent.

'I have upset you both,' said Miles. 'Perhaps I should go.'

'There is no perhaps,' said Kent. 'Drink the tea my wife made for you, then I'll run you home, make sure you get there.'

'Good,' said Miles, 'because we have something else to discuss.'

Twenty-Three

'You're going the wrong way,' said Miles.

'I shall be the judge of that. Let's take the coast road and get some sea air into those lungs of yours, invigorate you,' said Kent. 'Blow away those cobwebs.'

'It's a little out of your way, isn't it?' said Miles.

'Are you in a hurry to get home?'

The road that led into the village divided it for less than a mile before it became the road out of the village. Either side of it, buildings of stone complemented the grey sky above, and the two men drove by the post office, one of the village's two pubs, and the church; a reminder of faith for those who had need of it.

'It's been a while,' said Miles.

'What has?' said Kent.

'Since you and I hit the road together.'

'Seems like a lifetime,' said Kent.

'Seems like yesterday.'

The village gave way to the fields and the trees of the countryside.

'Beautiful,' said Miles, intending to just think it.

'Make the most of it while you can.'

'Yes.'

A string quartet coming from the speakers of the car had so far impeded conversation until Kent relented and lowered the volume. Miles ceased to fidget with the dial of his hearing aid.

'Mozart,' Miles stated. 'You always had good taste. In everything.'

'It's just the radio, but you're flattering me, Miles. Why? What are you after?'

'Peace of mind.'

'Good luck with that.'

Miles adjusted himself in his seat as his arthritis threatened to flare up. He felt fundamentally irritated.

Kent's eyes moved furtively between the road ahead and the passenger seated next to him.

'You in pain?' he asked.

'Of course.'

'Good. You feel something.'

'You really do despise me,' Miles said.

'It's worse than you think, the years have made me indifferent towards you. If it weren't for Alice playing nursemaid, you would no longer feature in my thoughts.'

Miles hesitated, 'And Sarah? Would she still feature?'

'She was your wife, Miles, not mine.'

'I'm glad you finally realise that fact.'

'Don't blame me for your failings.'

'Either you can be honest with me,' said Miles, 'or I can go back and talk to your wife and have this conversation with her.'

'And say what? All you have are suspicions and that is all you have ever had. All these years and you've finally convinced yourself of your own delusion. It's very sad, Miles. Very sad indeed.'

'I haven't the energy to argue with you, Kent. I haven't the time to let bygones be bygones either. Just know that I do not forgive you.'

'But you do forget, right?' said Kent, without hesitation. 'I do not, and that is something I want you to know. That's one of the many thankful differences between you and I. There are things I'm sure you wouldn't wish me to remember.'

'Don't you feel you're a little old for pretence?'

'Give me strength. There is nothing you could say to my wife that she hasn't already heard from me and I can be very convincing when I choose to be. It's a gift. It's why I'm better than you.'

Miles stared out of the window as the car crested a gentle rise in the road. He looked out at a copse of bare trees that stood in the distance, isolated in a ploughed field. He felt tired. More so than usual.

Kent continued, 'I would've thought you'd have drawn the line at destroying my first marriage. Obviously, that's not enough for you.'

'So that's it,' said Miles, still looking out. 'You're a stuck record of a tired old song. Catherine was always going to leave you. All I ever did was nudge you into doing what you should've already done, just as you did to me. All I did was speak the truth.'

'Your version of it,' said Kent.

'I merely confirmed her worst fears. From what I recall, you didn't exactly do much to allay those fears over the years.'

'The damage was done.' Kent retrieved a loose cigarette from his inside jacket pocket, one Alice had not discovered, and lit it. 'You hurt a lot of people in those days. That's your gift, Miles — hurt. Think what you like about Sarah and myself, she at least felt as though she could talk to me, and that is what always bothered you the most. More than anything else.' Kent blew smoke out through his flared nostrils as he turned to his passenger, 'I know things, Miles.'

'You think you know.'

With foul thoughts of current considerations, Miles noticed that the road had become a winding one, as Kent had turned onto the coastal road. They now shared the dark clouds overhead with the sea.

'That party of yours was a mistake,' said Kent. 'It was too much too soon. Perhaps even too late.'

'The party was your suggestion. Or Catherine's.'

'Nevertheless,' said Kent, a cloud of smoke accumulating around him. He opened his window a fraction.

'I just wanted to remind Sarah of the friends she had, that there were others that she could talk to,' said Miles.

'Besides me, or besides you? She was slipping back into herself already by then.'

Miles smiled, 'What you saw of her, what others saw of her, was different from what I saw of her. That veneer of hers would begin to slip and I would know that things were bad again.' Miles turned to stare at Kent, as Kent now had to keep his eyes to the narrowing road ahead, 'And you didn't exactly help matters. You were always having your clandestine little conversations.'

'We were just talking,' said Kent.

'Giving her advice.'

'Comforting her.'

'Interfering.'

'Helping her. My God, it's worse than I thought.'

'What did I ever do to you, or her, for that matter?'

'It's not about you.'

'That's nice to hear, that you can consider somebody else.' Miles felt himself begin to tremble as years of anger stirred within. 'You don't deserve Alice, you know. You don't deserve your happy little life.'

'My life is what I made for myself, moments of my choosing, all of which left me wanting more. It was you who chose to sit alone with guilt for company for the worst part of your miserable little life. I'm sorry I don't feel sorry for you, but you ruined lives, Miles. You almost ruined mine.'

'Your life isn't some grand story to be told to your children. It's a checklist at best.'

The sea and its sky came into view and Miles's heart sank as he saw the beach stretch out before him. It was his private place. It existed only for Sarah and himself. This spot had been theirs and theirs alone, and Kent did not belong there.

'Why would you bring me here, of all places?' Miles said.

Without a word, Kent brought the car to a stop on the flat of the dune that was familiar to Miles, in life, as well as in memory.

'What are we doing here, Kent?'

'I know things, Miles.' Kent left the engine running. 'It's a beautiful view. I can see why such a spot would appeal.'

Miles felt heat rising. He looked around and, as was often the case on such days as this, the beach was devoid of others, only now this made him uncomfortable. Kent pushed a button and his window slid further down until it disappeared into the door. He rested his elbow on the sill and blew smoke out to sea.

'I know you better than you think,' he said.

Miles was staring at his old friend, who spoke with eyes closed and a foot still resting on the brake pedal. Miles said nothing. He fought to understand the remark and, if Kent knew anything, how he could possibly know anything.

'Do you want to talk about it?' said Kent, 'Get things off your chest once and for all, while you have the chance?'

'I really don't know what you are referring to.'

'Come now, old man, let's not be idiots here.'

'My mind is a blank,' Miles said.

Make him work for it.

Kent finally opened his eyes and gave his full attention to his passenger.

'And why would you bring me here?' added Miles. 'You know I wouldn't want to be here.'

'That's why I brought you,' said Kent, 'and I bring you here as a concerned friend, but not of yours.'

Sitting there with Kent, the old man felt the keen absence of his wife. Her beach had become their beach and now Kent was soiling his memories. Miles wanted to leave that place more than he ever had before.

'Can we go?' he said.

'We just arrived.'

'Alice will be wondering where you've got to.'

'You don't need to worry about Alice, Miles,' Kent said, 'But you do need to worry about yourself.'

'And why is that?'

'You once said to me that Sarah got what she deserved.'

'Sarah? She got the peace she deserved, is what I meant.'

'Perhaps, and I firmly believe you have gotten what you deserve.' Kent turned his head and eyeballed Miles, 'You are alone.' He returned his gaze to the sea, 'Those around you know you better than yourself. How you see yourself is based on what you choose to remember about yourself. Others see you differently, because they remember things differently.'

'I just remember life as best I can.'

'We all do, Miles, but what I am trying to get through to you is that, well, it's all about perspective. Sarah was not a well woman, but it was you who didn't help her.' Kent stared at Miles with a rare sadness in his eyes, 'Perspective, old man. Perhaps, somewhere in that head of yours, you can find that peace of mind you're after, but you do not deserve it. You know what you did, because I know what you did, but it's not my place to remind you. You have to remember for yourself. Only then will you believe it. You're the only person you ever really listen to anyway.'

'Could you close your window? It's cold.'

'It is, isn't it? It's always cold nowadays. The cold gets under the skin and it stays there.' Kent took a drag of what remained of his cigarette, leaving the window down.

Miles stared out at the sea and at the beach that stretched south. Though the incoming tide eroded the land with each passing day, it still appeared the same to him, as it had been all those years ago. Neither here nor there, he wondered whether he should ever leave. He loathed Kent for having brought him here as an old man, unable to even get down to the beach itself. He looked out to the haar that hovered on the horizon.

'Please take me home,' Miles said.

'There's nothing there for you now.'

'Please.'

'Why should I do anything that you want?'

'Because you owe me, Kent, and you know it.'

'Delusional.'

'Because all you have are suspicions and that is all you have ever had. And because it is all your fault.'

Twenty-Four

The days of unease that followed Miles' discovery of his wife by the roadside merged into weeks. His leave of absence from work was becoming a difficulty, and it was at Sarah's insistence that Miles got out from under her feet. Miles was by no means comfortable with the notion. He had not let his wife out of his sight, but he did need a break.

'Only if Alice comes to keep you company while I'm gone,' he had said to Sarah, while Kent hung on the other end of the telephone that was pressed to his ear.

Sarah stood in the hallway next to Miles, arms crossed over her dressing gown as she leant against the wall. She had been quiet since she had been up, since lunchtime, but had become animated to a degree as a result of Kent's telephone call.

'I'll be fine,' she said. 'You should go. Really.'

'I don't want you to get lonely.'

'It will be good to have some time alone,' she said, pointedly. 'I won't be lonely.'

'Give her a break, Miles,' said Kent down the line. Only Miles could hear him and ignore him.

'I want you to go,' she said. 'Please. It is what I want.'

'Only if you're sure,' Miles said to her as she smiled at him, knowing he had now made his decision.

Miles felt it was a risk, but he had bones to pick with Kent and he had to pick them sooner rather than later. Miles also felt he had earned some selfishness of late. He wanted to get away from the woman he had married, if just for an evening, not only to see if she would cope, but to get away from her pain. He had suffered a recent bout of disturbed nights due to Sarah's screams, which she seemed unaware of as she slept. He was unsure as to whether he should mention them to her. The closest he had come was the usual morning inquisition of, 'Sleep well? Did you dream? How do you feel today?' He was living with a woman who made him nervous. Whatever had happened to her had changed her in some irreversible way. She was numb and passive and shrunken.

Their domestic routine had also changed of late. They still shared their bed, but Sarah would sleep for longer, going to bed early and rising later than Miles could manage. He would sit in their living room for hours every evening, persuading himself to go to bed. Sarah would occasionally cry out, as if in pain of some kind, and he would just sit there and listen. The cries voiced her brutal, unconscious despair, and were never once referred to. Like so much of her behaviour, Miles let it slide.

The house had become increasingly uncomfortable for him and his tension was manifesting into destructive thoughts. He felt a hostility that was balanced only by his love, and only just. He needed to get out. He decided to break free of their life, if only for a short while. The familiar change of scene of the city would be welcomed and his hostility could now be focused upon Kent.

'What time?' Miles said into the telephone.

'After my work,' said Kent, booming down the line. 'Let's say six at the usual place. At what was the usual place.' Kent laughed unaccompanied at his own comment.

The usual place was one of the safer bars in the east end of the city centre, and as such, attracted a large crowd of after-work patrons, particularly on a Friday. It was also a minute's walk from the central station and Miles would be there in a few hours time, waiting for a friend who always arrived late.

Miles lay his hand on the receiver once he had returned it to its cradle, as if ensuring the arrangement made it all the way down the line. He turned his head to Sarah and noticed she had adopted one of her falser smiles.

'I shall be back this evening, but don't wait up for me,' he said. Oh please, do not wait up for me, he had thought.

'No, no,' she said, peeling herself from the wall and turning away. 'You must stay with him. Make a night of it and I'll see you tomorrow. It'll be good to have time apart.'

In those delicate days Sarah could be blunt. Before Miles even attempted to find an argument, she had slid away behind the wall and into the kitchen. Her footsteps were silent, as were all her movements of late. Miles considered his contempt and his pity as the sadness of that time filled the house with a vacuum of stillness. Sarah rarely spoke and the absence of her conversation highlighted his. But there was little to say each and every day. He feared he would soon lose the capacity for human relationships if he did not indulge in the outside world.

He moved as silently as Sarah had and looked into the kitchen to see her gazing out of the window, limp and deflated against the sink. Another sunny day that she would shrink from; a wilting wallflower. Looking at her motivated his resolve to leave her to her peace and quiet, though he doubted peace played much of a part in her mind.

'You'll be fine, darling.' It came from him unimpeded by reserve. It was a functional reaction to her quiet. The more she withdrew, the more reassurance he needed, 'Did you hear me? I said, you'll be fine. A response of any kind would be appreciated.'

Sarah turned her head a fraction, 'Just enjoy yourself,' she said, and waited for him to walk away in silence. She sighed as he did so.

It is a strange thing. Never until now had I given it a moment's thought that you offered no goodbye. Your eagerness for me to leave, to go, to be by yourself. You had already decided to leave. So easy for you to just leave me behind. And here I am, clinging on to your dear life.

Sarah stood at the same window later that afternoon as Miles waved at her through the car windscreen. In the daylight, the window was a mirror to the garden, but he could just about see what he thought was her waving back at him. He tooted the car horn and drove to the local station several miles away. Since his time off from work, there had been little reason to visit the city, and it was becoming a memory to him. He would leave the car at the station and avoid any rush hour traffic. More to the point, doing so gave him the option to drink heavily and return on the train that night should he feel the need. He could drive drunk in the country as well as anyone, but through the city was another matter; he could not risk damaging the car.

*

A liberating ten-minute drive, followed by just over an hour on the train, brought Miles to the rush of the city station from under North Bridge and the glass roofing that enclosed the Victorian architecture. It brought him right into the heart of the city with ease. Alighting from his carriage into the throng of urgent people who hustled along the platform, he ignored the stairs and instead walked out into the evening sun using the main exit ramp reserved mainly for the taxi cabs. As he emerged, he was greeted by the relaxed faces of a Friday. Noting the clock of the Balmoral Hotel, he walked toward the Old Town. Having made his way up one of the many hills between staggered buildings, Miles made his way to a familiar haunt, where he was no longer considered a regular.

The bar was a twenty-minute walk away from Kent's office, and Miles appreciated the loyalty shown to a place that they had called home long before work and women had intervened. As he crossed the threshold into the comforting gloom, Miles felt regret at leaving the sunshine outside, but there was a cold air blowing around the city, and he was pleased to be out of it. No matter, he had time to wait for Kent and he could make a head start before the place was overrun by office workers.

A giant clock, which rose from floor to ceiling opposite the entrance on the far wall, reminded Miles that he was an hour early, as he had opted for an hour alone in a bar rather than another hour alone with his wife. His own company he could keep without issue. The pub was already beginning to show signs of the evening to come, with suits and secretaries decorating the bar like fixtures. Miles found a space between them and ordered his ale. The timing of his departure meant he had no need for food just yet and he knew from experience that Kent would have no time for food or any such thing that may interfere with the evening's entertainments. Miles found himself looking forward to a Kent evening, and considered a change of heart regarding his intended confrontation. He would have to be drunk anyway, so would assess the lay of the land later on.

As was usual, despite his recognition of the bar and all the staff, Miles was treated like any stranger would be in any bar at this time and he was served without familiarity. It was the way he preferred it, yet it still got under his skin that he could be as anonymous or as forgettable as anyone. Drink in hand, he made his way to a booth by the window opposite the end of the bar. From his seat he could see down the street that he had come up and he would see Kent walking up that same hill in an hour or so; Kent would be reliable in his lateness.

Kent Allsop was a man who could not tolerate his own company alone for long periods, and he ensured others would be waiting on him by appearing at least ten minutes after any mutually agreed time. Miles, on the other hand, knew of no better pastime than being alone with his own thoughts. Life was something he needed to consider so as to be able to cope with it, though he felt the keen absence of Sarah whenever he was away from her. As such, it had not been an entirely selfless act to take time off from work to care for her.

Before long, he had made significant progress with his ale and replenished it as the bar became overrun. The clock on the wall was soon obscured by the crowd and he glanced from his wristwatch to the street outside.

How does one accuse one's friend, or one's wife?

At this point in time, despite a reluctant desire to believe such, Miles could not readily convince himself that Sarah and Kent had been anything more than forced acquaintances, and to consider Sarah interested in anyone but herself right now was a distinct obstacle. But, as with any relationship, there was much left unsaid and Miles needed some clarity regarding the suspicions he had cultivated of late.

Her hand had been on his. They spoke in whispers. She could always smile for him.

He needed to slow his drinking. There was a long evening ahead, but not in any way he could have predicted.

His heavy heart sank further when he saw Kent appear at the window accompanied by his wife, Catherine. Neither noticed Miles through the window and he hoped they would also fail to notice him once inside, so that he could have some more time alone. Neither time or good fortune were on his side that evening.

'Look at him,' came Kent's voice from the end of the bar. 'Hey, drunkard, look alive!'

Feeling drunk through mere accusation alone, Miles shuffled out from the booth to take Catherine's hand as it was offered.

'Hello, Catherine,' he said, with a noticeable air of resignation.

You should have known.

Kent not only feared his own company, he feared boredom and needed to surround himself with others, to rebound off them. It was not uncommon for him to invite others without providing any hint or warning to Miles. It was a first, however, for Catherine to be one of those others.

'It's been a while, Miles,' she said. 'How are you? How's that wife of yours?'

The usual stock questions, Miles thought, preparing the usual stock answers in his head.

'I'm fine. She's fine. How are you? Kent never mentioned you were coming. I would've brought Sarah along with me if I'd known.' Miles could only imagine the scenario. Kent, meanwhile, was talking with his eyes over Catherine's head and Miles suspected he had had little say in the matter.

'Oh, I just thought I'd pop along and say hello,' she said, 'Don't worry, I'll only stay for one and then leave you boys to it.'

Neither man protested. Catherine and Miles reclaimed the booth while Kent ordered three drinks without consultation, debating the merits of the gin selection behind the bar.

'Hendrick's, of course,' Kent was saying to the barman. 'Put that other poison down before you hurt somebody.'

'Are you sure?' said the barman, foolishly. 'This is cheaper.'

'All the more reason,' said Kent, 'If my good lady wife over there gets anything but the best, my blood will be on your hands.'

'Whatever you say,' said the barman.

'And whatever you pour,' said Kent, producing a note from his wallet, 'will decide many fates this evening.'

'That is always the case, sir. Should I make it a large one?'

'I'm sure your definition of large differs to mine. I have been here many times before and your employer is unscrupulous. He is a cheap man and I suspect there is more actual gin in the small than in the large. But no. If you make it a large one, she may want another, and then where would we be?'

Miles looked over to Kent to assess the drinks situation, but could not hear a word under the murmurs that filled the air. He now had no option but to make conversation.

'It's been a while. Shame we haven't had you out at the house yet,' he said, thanking his lucky stars.

Catherine was a feature of their lives but little more. There was nothing identifiably wrong with her, aside from the fact that she had misjudged Kent as prime husband material, and therefore she could not be trusted any more than he could. Her dislike of noise, combined with her soft voice, had made her anti-social. Raised by loud alcoholics, she had seen beyond the revelry of drinking and could never look back. Why she was here, now, was a mystery to Miles. He knew from Kent that the marriage was traversing its predictable troubles and perhaps she had come as some kind of concession to reassure herself, or her husband. Kent had long since given up on her and had encouraged her dislike of pubs and bars for some time. It freed him to make new acquaintances that would otherwise be deterred. Miles knew that Kent would never exist in a life without alcohol, or if he did, it would be down to some failure of personality. Their friendship floated on alcohol.

'I've just been waiting for the official invite,' said Catherine.

'Oh, you don't need one. Come by any time.'

'Well, that's sweet,' she said, 'But Kent tells me Sarah is a bit unwell right now and perhaps guests aren't a good idea just yet.' She smiled falsely, 'Kent always finds a reason to keep me away from certain people. Sarah seems to have been unwell for some time?'

Miles shuffled in his anger at Kent's predilection for gossip. 'Well, I think your company, anybody's company, would do her the world of good.'

'She not enjoying country life then, is that it?'

'Country life is fine, Catherine, she just needs people around her. She doesn't think so, but that is what she needs.'

'Stuck in the middle of nowhere, I'm not surprised she's feeling a little down in the dumps. Kent thinks you should throw her a party, Miles. Get the gang around, put a smile on her face.' Catherine leant over towards the bar as Kent approached with the three glasses bunched in his hands, 'I say, Kent, he should throw a party, shouldn't he.'

'Who should?' said Kent, taking his dutiful place next to his wife.

'This one here,' said Catherine, pointing.

'What on earth for?' asked Kent.

'Give old Sarah a knees-up, show her a good time, put a smile on her face; like you said.'

'Well, it's not quite...' began Miles.

'Oh, leave the poor bugger alone,' said Kent. 'Always trying to organise folk.'

'Well, somebody has to,' she said. After a swift, tentative sip of gin and tonic, Catherine let her face drop before flashing her smile back at Miles, 'I'm telling you, Miles, a party.'

You hate parties, Miles had thought, and you're trying too hard.

'Would you come?' he asked her.

'We'll all come!' she said. Another character trait of Catherine's was to adopt her husband's social enthusiasms as well as friends, often referring to mutual acquaintances as if she herself were included in some way. She would tire of it before she reached the depths of her gin.

'Don't worry, Miles,' said Kent, 'she'll be gone soon enough, isn't that right, dear?'

'Me?' said Catherine, picking out a lemon pip from her drink. 'Yes, I shall. Just wanted to make sure you were meeting him, that's all.'

Miles said nothing as he witnessed the look of contempt that flashed across Kent's face. For a jovial person, Kent could look mean when he thought nobody was looking. Catherine flicked the lemon pip into the crowd.

The two men then steered the conversation towards work and cars and navigated away from any subjects that may have been of interest to Catherine, so as to facilitate her departure. By the time Miles had started on his third ale, he felt a vague temptation to persuade Catherine to stay, if only to see Kent wither throughout the evening. With each furtive glance in her direction, Miles saw her relax into her misery all the more and it suited her features because it softened them. He did not wish to add to her troubles, and so he wanted her to leave for that very reason.

'What plans for Catherine this evening?' Miles said to her.

She stiffened in fear of being caught out and adopted a semblance of her earlier joy, 'Oh, a quiet evening, a good book.'

The answer was brief but the question fulfilled its purpose.

'Right,' she said as she grabbed her handbag and tapped Kent on the thigh, 'I shall leave you two to it. Don't talk to any strangers. And Miles, I hold you entirely responsible.' It was a throwaway comment that Miles caught and he felt the weight of responsibility as he did so. Kent slid out from the booth and kissed Catherine's cheek as she passed by his lips.

'Enjoy,' she said, and disappeared from view without looking back.

'Bye, Catherine,' Miles said after her. Kent then resumed his position opposite him.

'I thought she'd never leave,' Kent said.

'A pleasant surprise.'

'Don't blame me, it was her suggestion. What could I say?'

'She looks unhappy.'

'Because it's over, dear boy, she just hasn't plucked up the courage to tell me so yet.' Kent seemed uninterested in the flow of conversation and attempted to drink it away. Miles knew his friend well enough that, despite any attempts to prove otherwise, Kent was indeed troubled.

'I'm sorry,' Miles said. 'But I am happy for you.'

'Happy?'

'Marriage doesn't agree with you. I've always said so.'

'It does, just not with her, I'm afraid to say.'

Miles was nowhere near drunk enough for confrontation yet. 'Same again?' he said, as he finished the second half of his pint.

'Immediately,' said Kent, nursing his.

As Miles stood at the bar he looked over at his friend through the crowd and saw a stranger. Just as Kent could look mean when he thought nobody was watching, he could also look lost, as he now did. Miles almost felt pity.

'Chin-chin,' said Kent upon receiving the fresh drink.

'You think a party's a good idea?'

'That's just Catherine talking. She always talks.'

'She said it was your idea.'

'It was. Anyway, how is she holding up?'

'Sarah? She's getting there.'

'She fine to be alone this evening?' Kent said, as if doubting Miles' judgement.

'Well you seemed to think so when you telephoned, as did she.'

'I merely suggested a night out. I hope you didn't feel obligated.' Kent drank to mask his smile.

'Ass. Anyway, we were discussing Catherine, not Sarah. You always prefer to discuss Sarah more than Catherine.'

'I'm just a concerned friend.'

'Not a concerned husband?'

'No more.'

'So what next?'

'I shall leave that up to Catherine to decide. Let her feel as if she is making a choice.' Kent no longer smiled.

'Isn't it a little cruel to string her along?'

'On the contrary. She will feel in control, empowered. That's what the women folk want these days. I mean, who would you prefer to be, the leaver or the left behind? No. I shall let her go when she is ready to release herself back into the wild.'

'And is their still a special someone on your horizon?'

'Always, but I now have to squint to see.'

The murmurs of the crowd were punctured by raised voices that seemed to go unnoticed by Kent.

'You are very fortunate, Miles. I know things have been very difficult, but you should appreciate your situation, no matter how delicate that situation may be.'

Miles turned away from Kent to focus upon an argument that was brewing somewhere amongst the crowd, 'Delicate is a word for it. Are you saying you envy me, Kent Allsop? That would be a first.'

Kent stared at Miles as Miles stared at strangers, 'I appreciate your situation, that is all.'

Miles turned back to Kent, 'I always assumed that you pitied me as you do every man who isn't you.'

'Pity and envy go hand-in-hand sometimes.'

The crowd beyond them heaved with the fight that had broken out within it.

'Come,' said Kent, 'the natives are restless this evening and there are better places for better men such as ourselves to over-indulge. I know just the place.'

Twenty-Five

The harsh shadows of decayed buildings began to blend with the coming of night. The evening fell away and the two friends found themselves walking along cobbled streets, up and over slight hills, and along a road littered with people in a similar condition to their own. Miles had already surpassed his four-drink limit that, in his maturing years, guaranteed illness the following day. The drink was hitting him hard and he knew he had to slow it down, yet Kent seemed in control and it stoked his contempt for his friend further. Miles felt inferior to Kent with each word that now fell out of his own mouth.

'Ah, I do miss the old town,' said Miles, telling Kent what he wanted to hear.

'It's not going anywhere,' said Kent, and that was all he said. Miles was prepared for the usual cajoling but it did not come.

'I know, but I will. I mean, I do,' said Miles.

'What are you babbling about?'

'This town was here long before me, as it shall be long after.'

'Of course, but it will never be the same. Nobody will see it the way you do.'

'Kent, are you very sober or are you very drunk?'

'I'll let others be the judge of that. Why do you ask?'

'I think you are being profound, but if you are, I do not understand you,' said Miles. The more drunk he felt, the more Kent appeared serious to him. Kent's strong arm found its way around Miles' shoulders and squeezed them together.

'Then I propose that you are drunk, sir,' said Kent, loud to the many passers-by. 'I am simply out-of-love, as I no longer have any need of it.'

Pedestrians parted to make way for the two men as they lurched oblivious along one of the wider avenues of the town.

'You'll be in love again before the evening's over,' said Miles, uncomfortable with the arm around him.

'That won't be love. Love is a bad time remembered fondly, and we are in the present, we are here, now.'

Wrapped together, they entered a modest public house underneath a sign that featured a leafless tree. Miles never saw the name of the place.

Inside was an aged crowd and Miles doubted many of them had been working that day. Wood dominated the interior and they found themselves confronting the barmaid before Miles had had time to fully assess his surroundings. He left Kent to take the initiative and turned to see where the music he now heard was coming from. On a bench by the window sat three men with a fiddle, a drum and a voice between them. Celtic tones eased out of them and kept the dozen or so drinkers attentive. Only Kent seemed distracted.

'Not a bad little hole, eh?' he said, too loud.

'It has its charm,' Miles said.

Across the small room, an old lady with a masculine face responded to Kent's voice and fixed him a stare. Kent simply raised the ale in his hand and smiled at her. As he did so, he leaned into Miles, 'Here be dragons, tread carefully.'

Miles looked down at his hands which now held an ale and a whiskey. Kent was providing momentum. Miles downed the whiskey to free his hand of the glass.

'That's an eighteen-year-old you just inhaled,' said Kent, 'Show some respect if not patience.'

'I think,' said Miles with hesitation, 'I think I may be drunk.'

'Pace yourself. I'll get them to put water in the next one.'

'No whiskey. Whiskey is bad for me, especially bad whiskey. No water either. I want to be as drunk as a man can be.'

'Then that is very drunk indeed, and we are in the right place for such an endeavour. However, a little water will keep you afloat. Do you know how much of the human body is water? Take the water out of a man and there is little left. You need it.'

Miles raised his ale to eye level, 'I think this has plenty of water in it, but I cannot be sure.'

'Chin-chin.'

Before he knew it, Miles was singing. The musicians were soon obscured from view but Miles could still hear them over the crowd. It seemed that the music was what the atmosphere gravitated towards and the attention of most people was focused on the rhythm and the melody. Miles accompanied the crowd, tentatively at first. The words were unknown to him, as was the melody, but as with any hymn, it was predictable. It was not long before Miles and Kent found their misplaced musical confidence.

Drinks became smaller and the music and murmur around them became louder. The room had filled to capacity and Miles and Kent were frequently separated by strangers making their way to and from the bar, or simply filling gaps within the crowd. The evening seemed as fragmented as it would when remembered.

Kent was consumed by the choir and Miles, alone, was soon drawn back to the thoughts that had occupied him when sober and his face betrayed him. A person next to him, a younger man, had said, 'Cheer up, it may never happen,' and Miles had looked at the younger man to silence him.

Miles looked on as he admired Kent's ability to strike up conversations with strangers, mostly of the female variety. The sheer obviousness of Kent and his intentions disgusted Miles almost as much as the responsiveness of those targeted. It was a dance Kent performed with exquisite timing and his conversation flowed from him in a way Miles could never hope to emulate. The internal panic Miles experienced with any stranger drowned out any voice of reason and he would more often than not say things he did not mean, simply to fill silences. Much like his singing, Miles never had the words ready in time. He stood, a drink of something in hand, occupied by stale thoughts and a false smile.

He felt remote from the crowd and looked upon it as a separate entity that heaved and swayed around him. Not one of the many voices was discernible and, as such, it helped Miles to distance himself further from his surroundings. He did what he always did when all around him were relaxed and enjoying company and conversation; he observed. He rooted himself in the moment and inhaled it. Life was taking place before him. It was a moment of pause for Miles to appreciate. Lives were being lived right there, together, in front of him. Their time would come to an end, and Miles took comfort in the thought that he would be the only one to remember them as they were right now at this particular point in their time. His acute feeling of presence was interrupted by the nudge of his drinking arm and his drink sloshed without spilling over.

'Where did you go?' asked Kent with a fixed grin.

'I was here all the time, just thinking.'

'Always thinking. What were you thinking about now? Let me guess... She'll be fine.'

Miles had not been thinking of Sarah, 'How could you possibly know such a thing? Has she said anything to you?'

'Why would she say anything to me?'

Don't take his word for it.

'I know you talk. I have seen you. You talk together.'

'It's a thing people do. Calm yourself.'

'Do you know anything that I should know.'

'She just needs a shake, is all,' said Kent from the depths of his drink, 'to shake her out of herself. A nudge in the right direction. She needs help you can't provide.'

'Help to do what? She doesn't seem to know what she wants, not that she would tell me.'

'I don't think she wants anything that she can actually have. She's lost and it would appear to me she has grown to like it.' Kent eyed Miles as Miles looked absently at a wall behind Kent, 'You cope rather well.'

Miles wanted the world to take his side, but not when it came to judging his wife. Kent was judging, as well as talking as if he knew Sarah better than he. Miles loathed him for it.

'It's different for her,' said Miles, 'She doesn't ignore problems.'

'A problem without a solution is no longer a problem.'

'Well, what would you do?'

'Cope. There is nothing else to be done.'

'She seems to think otherwise,' said Miles with a sigh.

'She needs outside influences. She requires distractions. You are just a reminder.'

'You're not helping.'

'Get her away from that house and just give her whatever she needs right now. This is about her, not you. You can cope.'

'She's on edge all of the time.'

'Then give her a little push and see what happens. From what I see and from what I hear, things can only get better.'

The end of another song was met by roars all around them and Kent lost his thoughts to the crowd and a woman he saw within it.

'Miles, I may now be too drunk for this conversation. We should change it immediately. We are here to forget.'

Miles followed Kent's glances across the room to a young woman, an attractive and attentive young woman, whom he had also noticed. At some point unknown to him, she had found her way to Kent. There was little in the way of competition in such a bar, but Miles considered her more beautiful than any woman he had seen all evening, if not for years. To describe her would make her seem plain, Kent would later say, but she had a sparkle in her eye and a certain degree of softness to her face that was lacking in most drinkers at that time of night.

'They play to please,' she said, without introduction, staring in the direction of the obscured musicians.

'They seem rather good,' managed Kent as he took a drink.

'They make a nice change from the usual,' said the woman, still addressing Kent and Kent only, 'I noticed you singing. Do you know what the words mean?'

With barely a breath taken, the bar was slurring in union in accompaniment of another song, singing in harsh accents.

'I'm not a shanty person,' Kent said, 'but I can shout with the best of them if need be.'

'Ah, that's all you need to do,' said the woman. She raised her glass to her mouth and finished her drink.

'Can I get you another one, dear?' Kent asked.

'You can.'

Kent took the woman's glass and passed it, along with his own, directly to Miles.

'It's his round,' said Kent, returning a smile to the woman, 'but the offer was mine.' He then returned the woman's smile as Miles turned from them with glasses in hand.

Miles bought the woman what turned out to be a Chivas, and one for himself, and something cheaper for Kent. Anger at his friend was stoked by the drinks he had already had. Waiting, he glanced back and saw Kent and the woman standing in apparent silence while admiring the crowd and they smiled at one another with each roar of that crowd. The woman took the initiative and Kent bent down so that she spoke directly into his ear. Miles paid for the drinks and returned to his companions reluctantly.

'Well, it's a bit quiet for my taste, but I'll get used to it,' the woman was saying, holding her smile. It lingered with her eyes, and such a look of purpose would have driven Miles away if he had been standing in Kent's shoes. Both the woman and Kent relieved Miles of their drinks without a word of thanks.

'Your wife not here?' the woman asked. For a moment, Miles froze before realising the question was not directed at him.

Kent hesitated too long, 'What makes you think I'm married?'

'You look like you're married,' she said, with no further word of explanation and she did not push the issue. 'Are you enjoying your evening with your friend?'

'I suppose so,' said Kent.

'Would you like to come home with me and enjoy yourself there?'

You couldn't make it up.

Kent considered the woman before him. He felt free and it made him feel unsure of himself.

'That's a tempting offer,' said Kent, following a substantial pause.

'It is a tempting offer,' she said.

'You are a very generous young lady and you barely know me.'

'We're getting to know each other now,' said the woman.

'I am afraid not,' said Kent. 'You are right though, I am married, if only just.'

Miles stood invisible.

'I'm not inviting your wife,' the woman said.

'I understand that,' said Kent, 'but she would be with us regardless.' Kent raised his glass to her, 'Enjoy your evening.'

As Kent pretended to drink his drink, the woman was absorbed by the crowd.

'How long was I gone?' asked Miles.

Kent smiled sheepishly, 'I must confess, I have been there and I have done that. Poor dear won't leave me alone, but the chase is often fun. We met some time ago, right here. She told me all about her husband then. They all like to talk about their husbands, for better or worse. I just felt sorry for the poor girl, that's all.'

'How charitable of you. And did you talk about your wife then?' Miles said, digging deep.

'No, my boy, I talked about love. Besides, she isn't really my type of woman.'

'Oh?' Miles laughed unintentionally, but did not regret that he had done so.

'No. Not now, anyway.'

Miles returned his attention to the people around him, 'How come I've never been here before?'

'Have you not? I thought we had been before together. I am sure of it.'

'It is new to me.'

'It was some time back,' said Kent, unconvinced. 'Actually, I think we were downstairs. There's another bar under here.' He stamped his foot on the wooden floorboards.

'Well,' said Miles, 'I don't remember it. Must've been someone else.'

'Dear boy, you are reliably wrong,' Kent said as he turned to face the bar, 'It was you. It's always you.' Kent necked his liquor, 'More drink, I think.'

That subsequent drink was the last that Miles remembered well. Within what had seemed like no time at all, his capacity to hear music and conversation had diminished and all senses blended into one another. The entire bar was in full voice and Miles could no longer tell if they sang words or shouted them. Next to him, Kent was joining in, ever the life and the soul. Miles looked at his friend ignoring the problems of his life and drifting along merrily with anyone who was around to carry him.

Miles could not allow it and his comfortable rage overtook him. It felt natural. He spoke to Kent, without a raised voice, which he knew would not be heard well amongst the shouts.

'Kent,' he said, to no effect, 'Kent, you don't know what you're talking about.'

Kent was lost to the crowd and was focused more upon the music that smothered Miles than on Miles himself.

'I know,' shouted Kent.

'Did you hear me?'

'It doesn't matter. Just make it up as you go.' Kent resumed singing.

'She's fragile right now.'

'What?'

'She's fragile.'

'Catherine? She'll be fine, mark my words.'

Miles considered their crossed words and forged ahead.

Don't believe a word.

'You can't be trusted.'

'What's that now?' Kent shouted louder, a little irritated by the persistent interruptions.

'I don't want you talking to her. You confuse her!'

Kent turned his attention to Miles and smiled with arms out to his sides regardless of the surrounding crowd, 'I am my own man, living my own life while I can. Let me get on with it.'

The crowd roared with glasses held aloft.

'She's my problem,' shouted Miles.

'My dear boy, if you'd rather go home, by all means go.' Kent was still smiling, but now Miles wondered if Kent had feigned his previous misunderstandings. As he wondered, Kent stared hard at him, 'I'm doing my best here, Miles, we all are, but you do make it difficult at times.'

'Do enlighten me.'

'You're drunk. I shall enlighten you when you are not.'

'Tell me!'

'Another time. Raise your spirits, not your voice. You know how you get.'

'Apparently not.'

'Don't take this the wrong way, as you assuredly will, but perhaps you need to take a leaf out of my book.'

'But you are contemptible.'

'And I am liked and I am loved.'

'There are things to consider, Kent. Other people, for example.'

Kent was rarely irritated but was now visibly so.

'You think I don't?' he said.

'You think about those you want to impress.'

'You're being an ass. Go home to your wife. Better still, go home to mine, she has a wonderful sense of humour!'

Miles felt heat rise as his friend told him what to do. Thoughts of frustration overwhelmed him.

'I won't have you talk to me like that,' said Miles. 'You go home to your wife, Kent. Stay away from mine.'

The two friends held each other's stare. The mass of people around them closed in on Miles and he felt suffocation creeping up on him. He began to shake as Kent broke the deadlock:

'Everything you think you know is wrong. Even that little wife of yours knows that. Poor bitch.'

Kent's head snapped back as far as his neck would allow. The force of the blow had not landed well enough to fracture his nose, but it had been sufficient and the pain of it was stifled by alcohol. The crowd prevented him from staggering too much and, expecting further assault, he looked through blinking eyes to where Miles had been standing a moment ago.

Outside in the dark, walking at speed along the avenue, Miles distanced himself from voices and shouts. He followed the flow of traffic that rolled north over the bridge. On the opposite side stood the hotel with its clock tower. There was time. All he wanted now was to be home, with his wife, and before he knew it, he was on the final train that would take him to her. He was still shaking.

Twenty-Six

With a reserve of composure, Miles stepped down from the carriage onto the platform. He knew his drunkenness could not be concealed, so averted his eyes from the one other passenger who alighted with him. The country air assailed his stale thoughts and his rage was now tempered by exhaustion and a slight sense of relief. He approached his car in what he considered was a straight line.

Driving out of the station yard was a challenge, and he crept onto the road having triple-checked that his way was clear. The road home was his alone but for the car of his fellow train passenger. As headlights approached from behind, he glanced at the speedometer to assure himself that he was travelling at a reasonable speed. He slowed to around the fifty miles-per-hour mark as the white lights reflected from the rearview mirror onto his face.

'Well, come on then,' he said to the mirror. The fist that clenched the steering wheel began to ache at long last.

As prompted, the lights moved from the mirror and passed by him on one of the few stretches of straight road. Miles relaxed back into his seat as the red lights merged into the dip and turn of the road ahead.

She will be surprised to see me home, he had thought to himself.

But she would not.

Tomorrow, we will have a good long chat and the air will be cleared, he had thought.

But they would not, and it wouldn't.

His headlights illuminated the tall trees ahead at the sharpest bend of the road and he let his hands slide down the steering wheel until they hung limp at the bottom of it. The tree trunks became brighter and more detailed and, at his current speed, he realised that all he had to do was nothing, just sit there and keep going straight. Then there would be no more problems.

'The straight route is the quickest route to any destination,' he said aloud.

The trees looked hard and cold and he relented, tapping the brake, taking the bend instinctively. Having driven this road to and from work countless times before, Miles often drove without any consideration or thought to it.

Emerging from the trees, Miles looked out to the valley. It was a beautiful, layered landscape of hillsides with the Cheviots lurking in the distant dark, the outlines of which were only just visible in the moonlight. His return home was worth it for this view, he had thought at the time, and he had to remind himself to watch the road ahead.

The bridge, the beech hedge, the dip in the road; all led him to the narrow gap between the narrow trees, along the driveway and up towards the house. Each window he could see was black.

'Anybody home?' he had said aloud.

For some time, he stood by the car and breathed in the air until he felt capable of holding a civil conversation, should the need arise.

He entered the main door and closed it in a way he perceived to be silent. Moonlight was all that illuminated the interior, and the darkness before him was pale. He walked to the foot of the staircase. He stood in the stillness. He listened for any noise, any sign of life. He made his way up the stairs and saw, in the dark of the upper landing, the slit of amber light at the base of the bedroom door.

'Probably sleeping,' he whispered.

Debating a range of pros and cons, Miles concluded that the chance of illness in the morning would increase were he to retire immediately, so instead, retreated to his recliner in the living room. He put the radio on for company. It was all that illuminated him. Though his head was full of Kent and song, Miles nevertheless heard the thump overhead several times before he rose from his seat.

Twenty-Seven

Someone was driving him. He remembered that someone as being Kent. Apologies and recriminations had been stunted and forgiveness had been set aside following Sarah's overdose.

Miles looked through the windscreen as the vehicle turned from the road and made its way slowly between stone pillars. Winding parallel tracks of gravel that had been forged by many vehicles over many years led them from the road through a manicured lawn, populated by trees of thin trunks and green canopies that belied the expanse of grounds surrounding the institution. It was suitably peaceful and, for Miles, predictably so.

Kent looked cautious as he peered out, leaning forward over the steering wheel as he did so. He was approaching their destination as slowly as he could, perhaps out of respect, perhaps out of reluctance. He raised his hand to his injured face, afraid to touch, afraid to draw attention to what Miles had done to him. Now was not the time.

The midday sun blinked through leaves of the trees that gave way to the large Georgian mansion which had, since a previous war, been a home to many in need of recovery and recuperation. There were two other motorcars parked to the right of the entrance and Kent parked alongside them.

The car door was hot to the touch as Miles closed it. He had not heard the other door slam shut and looked over the roof of the car to his hesitant friend.

'I should wait here,' said Kent.

Miles considered it briefly but had been prepared for the gesture. 'Well, come in and we'll see what's what. I'm sure they'll have a waiting area of some sort.' He walked slowly toward the arched entrance. Behind him, he heard the driver door slam shut.

Out of the brightness, the two men looked about themselves as their eyes adjusted to the lack of light. It was cool but comfortable within. They stood with hands in pockets in the centre of the foyer before a wide wooden staircase. Corridors splayed like branches from either, and a collection of polished wooden chairs nestled neatly in the corner by the entrance, surrounding a low table and some token literature. The brightness of the world was framed by the narrow windows that did little to illuminate the interior stone and mahogany. It was difficult for Miles to focus.

Following a moment of silence and contemplation, soft footsteps approached and both men wondered from which direction they would emerge. Appearing from behind, the nurse greeted them. She did not bother to introduce herself and spoke only to Miles. She told him his name rather than asking for it, and Miles assumed he was the only visitor expected. The nurse filled her small uniform to bursting and her handshake had been solid and assured.

'This way, Mr Morgan,' she said, her voice filling the air.

'Look,' said Kent, nervous and hushed, 'I'll just wait here for you.' He pointed to the chairs in the corner. 'Take all the time you need.'

'Yes,' said Miles.

He followed the nurse who promptly turned on her heels before walking once more down the corridor from where she had come, leaving him several paces behind her. Unmarked doors lined the way as they walked further and further toward a bright window at the end of a dark corridor. The nurse was now a silhouette, a stout but prim silhouette, in danger of becoming absorbed by the light of the window the further ahead of him she walked.

With several doors still to go, the woman stopped in front of an open door before turning and gesturing for Miles to enter. As he looked inside, Miles gave the nurse a spare smile that she returned warmly but briefly.

'I'll bring some tea in a jiffy,' she said, but never did. Miles could not remember seeing her again. He could not remember leaving that place.

He entered a bare room, small and bright, in which his wife sat in a high-backed armchair. Only one other such chair next to a small table with flowers shared the room with them.

It could have been possible that Sarah was wearing the same light summer dress she had worn that day by the road, by the river, because it helped Miles to define her. She sat with hands clasped on her lap and Miles noted her hesitation before she finally stood to receive his embrace. He released her quickly to look at her in the light.

'You look good,' he said.

And she did, he had thought, but only in comparison to herself a few days before, when he had visited her at the general hospital. He had not been able to find the words for her then. With a stomach pumped and a hangover of sorts, she had been drained physically as much as mentally and seemed as lost in herself as ever. He could not recall any conversation. He had sat next to her hospital bed, looking at her as she looked away from him. She had been an imitation of herself.

'Thank you,' she now said. She spoke softly, as had been her way in those latter days.

She returned to her chair and Miles sat in the one placed there for him. He pulled it forward so that his hands could enclose hers. He looked around needlessly, 'Are you settled? Are they nice to you?'

'It's fine,' she said.

Miles searched for anything to say that would bring a smile to her. He had not known what to expect of her, but he was glad to see a stability in her mood. Now, in the sun, she was capable of conversation, if not a smile. Miles looked at her a moment.

I can't remember what was said.

He clasped his hands and felt crushed by the weight of the memory, or perhaps the realisation that it was exactly that and nothing more.

'I can't recall what was said.'

Sarah stared at him while he thought.

'We discussed my return home,' she said. 'You were afraid of my coming home.'

'No doubt,' said Miles. 'I had a right to be.'

Her hand in his as he felt nothing.

It didn't feel right to hold her hand.

'You were sent home with more medication,' he continued, more to himself, 'but I can't remember what medication it was. I always felt it odd that they gave you more.'

'A means to an end,' she said. 'Medication and some stern words of advice.'

'Yes, to me. And I remember pestering you, every day. 'Have you taken your pills,' I would say. You became so irritated.'

'They may have helped in time.'

Hm.

Her words hung in the air while their hands loosened their grip. He stood and stared down at her and saw nothing but an image of his own making.

'I am finding it remarkably difficult to separate myself from life.'

'You remember what you need to, when you need to, when it suits you,' she said.

'I remember, from a distance.'

Sarah's face dropped, and it seemed such a vivid recollection that Miles took it to be an honest one.

'You seem yourself here,' he said.

'I seem myself because I am unhappy,' she said, looking up again.

'No. Because you are honest.'

'There are better memories,' she said. 'Happier times.'

'This feels real though,' he said.

'Remember me better,' she said. 'Relax. Sit down.'

He looked at her a moment longer, 'I don't remember you well enough, that's the problem.'

'You need context.'

'I left you alone to yourself. It was too soon.'

'Nothing depended on you being there or not. It was an impulse. It felt like the thing to do. You must see it that way. My action was a reaction. It's not about right or wrong.'

'Did you think about me? How it would affect me?'

'I thought about how you would be happier. I always thought about you, even though it was not about you. That's why I left the letter for you.'

'The note,' he said.

'The letter. It was all there but you didn't find it. And now I don't want you to love me like you do.'

Miles wanted to shake her, to shake her out of herself.

'I just want to stop,' she said.

If nothing else, Miles remembered her saying this. She had on several occasions, and he never responded with anything other than silence. He sat back in his chair and gripped the arms of it, to remember the feel of it. He then gripped her arm gently to remember the feel of her. She looked into his eyes and said she did not want him to love her. She pleaded it.

'I did all that I could for you,' he said.

'And you thought you could trust your own judgement, just as you do now. Just as I did then.'

'Well, it was all for nothing anyway. All that worry. You got what you wanted in the end.'

'But I was getting better though,' she said.

'Be quiet.'

'I was getting better, and you know it.'

'But it was an accident. How many times? It was an accident. It was an accident.'

'Yes, of course it was,' she said. 'Keep telling yourself that.'

*

'Keep telling yourself what?' said Mrs Allsop. 'I thought I would find you up here.'

As she stood in the doorway of the upstairs bedroom, it appeared to her that the old man was on the verge of falling as he perched on the edge of the bare mattress. The old man's legs were now too short for him to sit on that old bed with feet flat on the floor, but as the room was otherwise bare, he pointed the ends of his slippers onto the floor to support him. Mrs Allsop saw that his legs were shaking slightly, but he did not seem visibly aware of what must have been an uncomfortable position. Miles looked up from his thoughts to see her, half-obscured by the open door, dripping rain from her raincoat onto his cream carpet. His first thought was how tired and faintly ridiculous she appeared with her lank hair poking out from under her transparent plastic rain hat, which had obviously failed in its purpose.

He knew how long she had been standing there about as well as he knew how long he had been sat on the edge of the bed. He turned to the bare window that framed the wind and the rain outside.

'I don't even remember how I get up here sometimes,' he said.

'Kent mentioned you seemed a bit out of sorts when he brought you home, so I thought I would come and check on you.' She stepped from behind the door, 'Silly bugger should never have taken you out to that beach. As usual, I apologise for my husband.' She hesitated for a moment as she began to remove her sodden hat. 'I take it I am welcome?'

'What?' Miles cleared his throat, 'Oh, yes, of course. What time is it?'

'It's after six. I can make you something to eat, if you like, if you haven't already eaten, but I can't stay long. I told His Majesty I wouldn't be more than an hour.'

'That's fine,' he said, still trying to find himself in the moment.

'It was his idea I pop over, actually.' She stepped forward as she shook her flimsy hat at her side, as if it needed to be dry. 'Miles, you look a bit under the weather. Let me help you down the stairs and we'll have a nice cup of tea.'

Miles now looked at her instead of through her. His eyes were swollen with tiredness. 'I have a confession to make,' he said with a rasp that always afflicted him when tired.

And I have tea to make, thought Alice Allsop. She sighed and perched next to him on the mattress, apprehensive of what she knew was to come. 'I know,' she said, 'I know you do.'

Miles seemed to ignore her remark and stared at the carpet.

'I remember things,' he said, 'sometimes.' Miles pointed to the floor. 'This is where she was, lying right here, on the floor. Just on the floor.'

The bedroom had long since represented dark memories for them both, and Mrs Allsop knew instinctively what Miles was now referring to. 'I know. You don't have to go over it again.' She had not expected this today. She did not have the energy for her own grief today.

'She was not herself,' said Miles, as he focused on the moveable image of his wife writhing at his feet. 'She was heavy. Very heavy. You wouldn't think it to look at her.'

'I've picked you up enough times. Believe me, I am familiar with a dead weight,' Mrs Allsop said. A laugh escaped her before she had time to catch it and she immediately regretted the lightness of her tone. Again, it was ignored.

'I should never have left her. She wasn't ready to be left.'

'You did what you could, Miles. Wrapping her in cotton wool only made matters worse.'

'I was drunk. Your husband got me drunk.'

'You got yourself drunk, Miles. And he wasn't my husband then. I bear no responsibility and neither should you.'

'Still, I was in no shape to help her.'

'But you did help her.'

'I hesitated.'

With the familiar words, Mrs Allsop now turned her eyes to the carpet.

'I heard her and I came to her, but slowly,' said Miles.

'It must have been dreadful,' said Mrs Allsop, hoping to deter him from his confession.

'I hesitated.'

The old man stared at his interlocked fingers as they hung between his knees. The veins running along his hands were prominent and he almost felt them pulsate under his skin.

'I stood right there, by that door, and I hesitated. I stood and I watched her. I think I had been angry that night, and I hesitated, simply to see what would happen. And it wasn't shock. What I pushed the door open to made perfect sense to me. It was only when I realised how conscious she was, that she wouldn't stop moving, only then did I help her from the floor. But only then. Part of me thought she had made the right decision, and what right did I have getting in the way of that decision.'

'I'm sure it only seems that way now.' Mrs Allsop rested her free hand on his, 'It was a long time ago. As you said, you were drunk and I'm sure a million thoughts raced through your head at that point. There's no point dwelling on such things.' The words came from her as if rehearsed, as they were words she had spoken several times before.

Miles looked from the wedding band of her hand up to her face, 'But it's my life,' he said, 'Dwelling on it is all I have. My days are as quiet as my nights and I need her company, Alice. If I don't think of her...'

Her hand was now squeezing his.

'Alice?'

'Yes, Miles.'

'I need you to tell me I am a good man. It is important to me.'

'Then I suppose you must be,' she said.

Miles took hold of the cane resting next to him on the mattress and supported himself on it, as well as on Mrs Allsop, and stood with his back to her.

'More to the point, was I a good husband? You must have spoken of it together.'

'We did,' she said, sadness creeping into her voice, 'She loved you as much as anybody, Miles.' She did not want to go into details right now. It was ground that had been covered several times before and would no doubt be done so again. Previous such conversations had not ended well.

'But no more than anybody,' said Miles, facing the window.

'She was my only sister and I can't say even I knew her very well at that time. Who was to know what she was thinking,' she lied, unwilling to repeat words of fear that stemmed from thoughts of uncertainty.

As Mrs Allsop kept truth to herself, so the old man resisted the urge to go into further detail of how he had waited for his wife to die before him. He kept silent at how he had sat for much of a night in the waiting room of the local hospital and had felt no joy when the nurse informed him Sarah would be fine. He kept to himself his suspicion that all of the medical staff seemed disgusted by his wife and her actions that night. Sarah had given up. She had exhibited little concern for the life he would have to live in the wake of hers.

'I felt angry that night,' he now conceded, 'with Kent. I thought they had both let me down. Now, I understand my wife. I understand her selfishness. Then, I just saw a person who was looking to leave me.'

Mrs Allsop rose from the bed with a greater ease than Miles had and moved to the door. 'Well, nobody was persuasive enough to make her see sense, even Kent. It was a problem of hers that became ours. I was angry too, but it was understanding she needed. Mind you, I'm still convinced, even to this day, that she would have come through it. I really do feel you helped her, Miles. Please believe that before it's too late.' The rain hat sat scrunched in her tightening fist, 'Come on, let's get you downstairs.'

'Did she not think how I would feel, finding her like that?'

'She wasn't thinking then.' Mrs Allsop turned the light switch off as she passed it.

Miles turned about in the darkness, 'Oh no, I understand that. But at the time... She just wanted a way out and I was in her way. That husband of yours didn't help matters.' He raised his cane and pointed it at her.

'As a matter of fact he did, Miles. He made her smile and he listened to her. Patiently.'

'He was a married man.'

'Who wanted me.'

'What about his wife?'

'I'm his wife now,' she said, 'and put that stick down before I hurt you with it. Come on with you, let's get you down those stairs before I throw you down.'

'They didn't have to be so secretive.'

'Oh Lord, he was a shoulder to cry on. Some things she just couldn't talk about with you. Give me strength. Believe it or not, she thought you were grieving too.'

'I was. Of course I was.'

Twenty-Eight

Enough of his time had been spent hovering in the foyer of the institution and Miles now stood in the open doorway to emphasise the fact. Sarah's suitcase was not heavy, but he set it down and blocked the entrance while he waited. Ignoring her husband, Sarah was busy listening to the doctor, whose handshake became a handhold while he rested his other hand on top of hers. Miles heard only fragments of words, and the doctor, old but robust, seemed in no hurry to release Sarah from his grip. A smile from Sarah initiated a determined goodbye and the doctor relented and released her. As Sarah walked out, Miles raised a waving hand in the general direction of the doctor who had already turned his back on them.

Outside, Sarah waited by the car as Miles approached with caution. His weight on the gravel emphasised his cautious pace and he was glad of the sound. The day was still and she was yet to speak, though the look she gave him was genial.

'What did he say?' Miles asked, as he unlocked her door and held it open.

'He just said goodbye to me, and to keep in contact should I need anything.'

'I know you better and I know what you need.'

They drove away and neither looked back. The days leading up to this particular one had dragged, as if lame, but now their reunion was upon them, as if from out of nowhere. Time apart had refreshed them both in different ways and it now felt as if years, not just days, divided them. As the car turned onto the road, sunlight blinded them both.

'I think the other way is quicker,' she said, before qualifying herself, 'unless you have somewhere else you need to go.'

'I know the way, you should know that by now,' he said, the harshness of his words hanging between them. 'We're not going home, dear. Not today.'

'Where are we going?'

'Anywhere but home.'

The decision to leave their life behind had occurred to Miles the moment he had woken that morning. The recent days of solitude had been agreeable to him, if only because he could relax with only his own company to keep. He had enjoyed his days alone and the thought of being in that house with her again brought a wave of anxiety crashing down upon him. He did not want her there until he could be sure of her.

'So,' he said, 'tell me where you would like to go. Anywhere. Anywhere at all. We shall go there right away, no matter where.' He felt comfortable asking questions of her now. She was still somewhat distant, but she was lucid.

'You've caught me somewhat off-guard,' she muttered. Her voice had seemed smothered during her recuperation, as if every sentence drained her physically. 'Take me anywhere,' she said into her chest.

'Well then, we shall drive until we feel it right to stop,' he said. As had often been the case, Miles seemed to absorb whatever energy had escaped from his wife, and he proclaimed rather than spoke.

'You brought your suitcase?' she asked.

'I have nothing, but it doesn't matter. We can find what we need along the way.'

'You have no change of clothes?' she asked.

'I have the ones I am wearing.'

'No toothbrush? Your shaving kit?'

'I can find such things. They have them everywhere.'

'You don't need to do this,' she said.

'I know, but I shall.'

'But where shall we go?' she asked.

'Anywhere.'

'For how long?'

'For as long as it takes.'

'What about the house? Your job?'

'What about them?'

Sarah nestled into the passenger seat and she closed her eyes, 'We can drive and drive and drive,' she said.

'And find a place to stay,' he said. 'We can stay as long as we wish. Just the two of us. We are going to go far, see new places, meet new people. We shall reclaim our life for ourselves.'

'This suits you,' she muttered.

'And it feels right,' he said, his eyes to the road ahead.

Keep telling yourself that.

*

Miles knew where they were going. He always knew.

'We're heading south, aren't we?' she said.

'We are,' said Miles. 'There is further to go if we go south. We need to go far. The further, the better.'

'It's beginning to rain,' she said.

'And it's summer rain. It's fine, don't worry.'

'I'm not worrying. I don't worry anymore.'

'Are you okay?'

'I am,' she said. 'Please stop asking me that.'

*

They had far to go. To save time, Miles avoided all major towns and cities along the way, putting the car through its paces. Heading south through the north east of England, they stopped for petrol at an isolated old garage that marked the summit of a modest hill surrounded by fields. Miles sounded the car horn and a young mechanic emerged from the motor shed. The mechanic walked to emphasise the fact that he had all the time in the world, and that world could wait for him. He wiped his hands on his overalls, making them dirtier, before raising one to acknowledge Miles. His greeting had been resigned and functional, and Miles dismissed it. Under a layer of filth, the mechanic was much younger than Miles, but a life of labour had aged him unfairly. While the mechanic filled the tank, Miles stood alongside him and attempted conversation. Sarah stretched her legs by the side of the road to distance herself from the men, looking aimlessly in either direction as she did so.

'Busy day?' Miles asked. 'Must be quite quiet around here.'

'I manage,' said the mechanic, his eyes drawn to the woman by the road. 'Things are looking up. They seem to be looking up everywhere now, if you believe everything you read.'

'Well apparently so,' said Miles. He looked over the head of the mechanic at the motor shed behind them. It was the only building they had seen on the long country road and it stirred both pity and envy in Miles, 'Just yourself out here?'

'Aye, it is.'

'You own the place?'

'Belonged to my father,' the mechanic said. 'Belongs to me now.'

'You don't mind it? The quiet?'

'Why would I?'

Miles felt his small talk begin to swell and retreated from his enquiries, waiting for the mechanic to think of something else to say.

'Nice car you have yourself here. You do alright for yourself, don't you?' obliged the mechanic.

Miles looked at the young man looking at his wife, 'I do,' he said.

'Heading south then, are you?'

'Apparently.'

'The coronation?'

'That's today?'

'Tomorrow,' said the mechanic, somewhat incredulous. He even laughed a little to the point where Miles wanted to hit him hard, 'Unless you are one of those types they say are camping out on the streets overnight.' He shook his head and it agitated a broader smile, 'Folk don't seem to have anything better to do with their time. Strange.'

'People are strange,' said Miles.

'They say they are giving the city a spring clean; the statues and the like. I'd say it needs it.'

'You know it well?'

'No.'

'I do,' said Miles, 'and it does need it.'

The petrol pump fell silent and the mechanic jiggled the nozzle. He closed the cap of the tank and wiped the paintwork with a rag before wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

'All that smog, you probably won't even see anything anyway, and on top of that, forecast is rain,' he said. 'So they say.'

'Yes they do. Well, I'm sure there will be a good turnout nonetheless. We could do with something to celebrate.' Miles did not necessarily agree with his own statement, but it was something people said.

'Is she okay?' said the mechanic.

Sarah was standing still by the road, her arms folded around herself.

'She is,' said Miles. 'Why do you ask?'

'Didn't mean anything by it. Well, I hope you enjoy yourselves anyway. It'll be busy, and I hear things move a lot quicker down there.'

'Things do move quicker, the people especially. Some even try to move through you, they are in such a hurry to get to where they are going.'

'Aye, well,' said the mechanic, holding out his palm, 'We are lucky here that way; there's nowhere to get to. It'll be something for you to remember, that's for sure.'

'Indeed.'

'Something to tell the children.'

'How much do I owe you?'

*

'And I thought you were being impulsive.' It was the only conversational thing she had uttered since passing through the Dales.

'It's as good a place as any,' said Miles, regretting telling her. 'I can't think of anywhere better for us to go.' He moved his hand of reassurance from her thigh back to the gear stick, 'It feels right.'

'What happened to seeing new things, getting away from ourselves?'

'It's an historic event and we need life around us. The peace and quiet has been unkind. Where better than London; everyone else will be there.'

'But I know London. We've done London.'

'Yes, and we were happy there, albeit not for very long.'

'A long time ago.'

'Not so long.' Miles shifted gears and they crunched in response to his impatience. 'Look, it'll be an experience if nothing else and we can go somewhere new afterwards. I think it would do us both the world of good. I really don't see the harm.'

'Miles, I really don't want to, and I know what you are up to.'

'I am up to nothing,' he lied.

'It is a shame that you think I don't know you well.' And she knew he was on the cusp of anger.

'We were happy there,' he said, 'and everything there is good for you, so I am afraid I must insist.'

'Things are different now. I won't relive a past that no longer has a future and you shouldn't force it.'

'It will be good for you.'

'Miles...'

'It will be good for you. We are going. We are as good as there.'

*

'This wasn't here last time,' Miles said through the drizzle that slid from his umbrella. 'Why do things have to change?'

It was a rhetorical question and he shook his head as he shook the umbrella closed. Under the canopy of one of the many horse-chestnut trees, the umbrella had become redundant, and from within the shadow of the tree, the couple looked out at the milling crowds that moved with purpose through Battersea Park.

'It's been, what, seven... eight years?' Sarah said belatedly. 'Things change, Miles.'

'I understand that,' he said, 'but this? What have they done to the place?'

'It's progress, I suppose. It's meant to be fun. Pleasure. They call it the 'Pleasure Garden' now, according to that sign.'

''Pleasure Garden.' It was a park, now it's a fun fair. Why can't they leave well alone? People come here to escape the noise.'

'It's progress,' said Sarah.

'So you keep saying,' said Miles.

Their attention was caught by a wooden roller-coaster in the distance, the cries from which were lost to the wind.

'Dangerous,' said Miles.

'Fun. How long do we have?'

'We have plenty of time.'

'The buses will be crammed tight.'

'I said, we have time. We can walk from here anyway, it really isn't that far.'

'Along the river?'

'No. We'll go along the King's Road,' stated Miles, 'Like we used to.'

'Used to?' she said, 'We did so only once, as I recall.'

'So then we used to.' His irritation was palpable and the drive of the last two days was still taking its toll on him. The accommodation they had found the previous evening had been uncomfortable, and Miles felt unrested and unrefreshed for the day ahead of them. He looked up through the dense branches and the greenery. 'Come,' he said, 'It doesn't look as though it'll clear anytime soon anyway.'

'A little while longer,' she said.

'No. I feel colder out of the rain than in. Let's go while we still have plenty of time. Come on.' He stepped out from under the tree, opening the umbrella once again to tempt Sarah. She hesitated as Miles looked to things she could not yet see. 'A shame,' he said, 'I thought it would be nice to see the old place again.'

'They always say, 'never go back'.'

'Do they? I never listen to them, but I'm sure we'll look back at this fondly, regardless. Come on with you.'

The forced intimacy under the umbrella warmed them and it was when they reached the river at the northern edge of the park that the breeze robbed them of that warmth once again. The bustle of the crowd prevented them from sharing the umbrella further and Miles handed it to Sarah as they crossed the bridge to Chelsea.

'Retracing old steps,' said Sarah, as they turned onto the King's Road toward the city.

'Too much has changed,' said Miles. 'That day we met, that first day, we spoke all the way along this road as if there were no tomorrow.'

'You spoke the most,' she said.

'Out of nerves, I suppose. I wanted to find out all there was to know about you before we said our goodbyes.'

'You talked at me all the way to the park.'

'And that's where you tried to say goodbye to me.'

'I'd thought I'd seen the last of you.'

'You'd hoped,' said Miles, smiling alone, 'But I knew where to find you and find you I did. And that was that, I suppose.'

'It felt right. Such plans we made.'

'It is nice to be here, in the heart of things on a day like today. A change of scene.'

'The Mall will be busy,' she said. 'Is it really worth the hike?'

'We won't know until we get there, will we? We have to at least try.'

'I suppose we do.'

*

'We made it.'

The smile from Miles was lost amongst a crowd of many smiles and cheers and noise. The bodies around them seemed to encroach as delighted yelps and applause sounded along toward the Palace, accompanying the carriage that neither of them could see. All around fluttered the flag and cardboard periscopes saw what they could not. Over-sized crowns hung suspended from scaffolding that arched over the wide avenue and somewhere, a carriage was making its way through the masses. As cheers grew louder, Miles and Sarah had to only assume that it was passing them by.

'This is history, I suppose,' said Miles, 'We're part of history.'

'It's too busy,' said Sarah, 'We should go. We can't see anything anyway.'

'But it's history. We came all this way.'

'And we can't see it.'

'The procession is passing. Be patient.'

'I need to go, Miles. I need to go right now.'

'We shall, in a moment.'

The ornate golden carriage came in and out of view between the bearskins of the soldiery and an enthusiastic stranger separated Miles from Sarah as he strained to see. A surge pushed against them and Sarah pushed back against the surge until she found herself unable to see her husband. It felt right. She did not care to see what others did, and she faced away from them as she was gratefully filtered toward the trees of St James' Park, away from the celebration. As she was squeezed through, she heard her name from somewhere behind her, but she did not turn to it. Repeated calls were reason enough to push against the people, and she continued to distance herself from her own name. That distance was not yet great enough. She wanted to keep walking, but the mass of people was too much and she was trapped.

He saw her as he called her name once again. She was easy to spot through the flags and arms and periscopes, as she was the one member of the crowd, other than himself, looking the other way. From what Miles could make out, she seemed to be looking down at the ground. He made a concerted effort and found a way through to her, finding her arm and feeling her flinch.

'I'd thought I'd lost you,' he shouted, above the cheers.

'I know,' she said.

'You're missing it. You're missing everything.'

'Yes.'

Miles brought her close to him, he could barely hear her, and flags waved about their heads.

'If you really want to go, then we can go,' he said.

'You can stay, if you like.'

'But then we'll never find each other again. Really, it doesn't matter. We can go.'

'Stay. Please, I want you to.' She looked up at her husband.

'Why? Where would you go without me?' he asked. His smile faded until his own expression matched that of his wife. 'You were leaving,' he said. 'Just for a moment there, you were leaving, weren't you?'

Sarah did not respond, her silence eloquent. Miles felt his fingers digging into her arm and so relaxed his grip, without letting her go.

'I thought everything here would be good for us, that's all. I know you don't like the crowds and the noise, but it is good for you,' he said.

'The happiness of others makes me sad,' Sarah said. 'How can all these people be so happy? The world is over, Miles. How can you feel any other way? I know you mean well, but I don't take comfort in our past like you do. This is false hope and nothing more.'

Miles looked through her. 'Then we shall leave, go somewhere else.'

'All roads lead home.'

She was right, of course.

'Well then let's go home,' said Miles, 'You're obviously intent on giving up.'

He led her by the arm as they made their way through the people, silenced by the joy of those people until they found themselves on peaceful streets that they both knew from better days. Wide streets led them to narrow streets and into the shadows of stone that led them toward the river once again. With breathing space, Miles released Sarah's arm and she continued walking, while he had attempted to stop. He then followed her as she walked from one crowd towards another.

'I see the doctors were a lot of use, then,' he called after her.

Sarah ignored him.

'If you can talk to them you can talk to me.'

'They listen,' she said, without stopping or looking back at him.

'Then perhaps I should talk to them to hear what you have to say.' He found her arm once again and brought her to a stop, 'Last time we walked these streets,' he said, 'we hardly knew one another, but we walked closer together then. I don't know what to do for you now, Sarah, so I need you to tell me. We can't go through life like this.'

'I am not some problem for you to solve. When we met, it was all before us, and now it is behind. There is nothing to be done about it. Please give up.'

'We're still young. There is still time. We can't let this determine our life.'

'But our life is not what you thought it would be,' she said, pulling back.

That's for me to decide.

From the dark of the narrow street they emerged into the light of a thriving market square and both were consumed once again by the tide of people. Moving through the flow, Sarah's gaze seemed drawn to the opposite side of the street as she made her way with purpose. Miles followed her and his eyes were drawn to the Underground sign above steps that descended into the earth. Joining her on the pavement, he searched her face as she looked him dead in the eyes.

'This is it,' she said.

'What is?' said Miles.

'This is where I ruined our life,' she said.

Miles felt a sickness rising, and the diesel fumes of the passing buses were not helping, and the noise they left in their wake hampered the confession of his wife. The news she broke to him was better taken sitting down, yet they stood, rooted to their spot at the entrance to the underground. The rain competed with his cold sweat and Miles opened up the umbrella once again, if only to bring Sarah closer to him so he could hear her, so he could be sure of every single word that she said. So close, she seemed so small as she let go.

'What do you mean?' he asked. 'What do you mean by ruining our life?'

'Well, this is where I agreed to meet you.'

Twenty-Nine

Above her was the street, below her the Underground, before her the man. Other men and fewer women pushed by Sarah as they found a way up and down the stone steps, ignoring the ruin of the world around them in their haste. Sarah also ignored her surroundings, focused instead upon the flame that lit the cigarette that was clenched between her chapped lips. Had it occurred to her that she would be in that exact same spot eight years hence, with a husband she did not yet have, she would have found herself ridiculous. She blew the smoke in the direction of the man before her, but the day's gentle breeze carried it away. She clasped her fist around the cold metal handrail to prevent herself from being carried further down the steps by the passers-by.

'So,' she said, glancing at the Underground sign above them, 'I suppose this is goodbye.'

The man, who towered above her two steps up, considered her words with care, as was his tendency. He removed his own cigarette from his mouth, pushed his hat back along his head, and rested a hand on the handrail, next to hers.

'Why?' he said.

'As I told you this morning, I have plans. I have to meet my sister, and you're leaving town.'

'And if I chose to stay?'

'Now why would you do a thing like that? You have a job... and a life.' As she spoke, Sarah could not help but smile at the man and his desperation, as she had many times since meeting him the previous evening. She admired him and he knew it, and he adjusted his hat and looked out at the street that was obscured to her.

'It is true,' he said, 'I have obligations and commitments, but that doesn't mean this is goodbye.'

'Oh no?' she said.

'When you meet your sister, what are your plans with her?'

'Lunch,' Sarah said, 'Then a tour of some sights she hasn't yet had a chance to see.'

'She hasn't seen me yet,' he said.

Sarah was not in the habit of befriending strange men, and she was not in the habit of introducing them to her family. The thought of all potential implications raced through her mind as she hesitated.

'Am I not a worthy sight?' added the man.

'I suppose you are,' said Sarah, playful and relaxed.

'Well then, I propose a plan of action. I too have to meet somebody.'

'Oh?'

'Jealous already, my dear? Don't alarm yourself, it is a friend of mine, a male friend, well, somebody I served with. He's just been demobbed, hopefully deloused, and is arriving into Victoria around noon. We have some catching up to do and, while he is still demob happy, I fully intend to squeeze some drinks from him before I head north. Have your little lunch, then come meet with us.'

'I don't know,' said Sarah, 'It sounds as if you need time to reminisce about your war.'

'Nonsense, that is the last thing we shall be discussing, I assure you. However, he is a stranger in town and perhaps the attentions of your sister will help him to re-enter society with a greater ease. It would be reassuring to leave him in somebody else's capable care. What do you say?'

'Mother always told me to stay away from strange men,' she said, returning her cigarette to her fixed smile, 'and now I am meeting another? My sister will be shocked.'

'We're all strangers to begin with. It'll be fun. Perhaps your sister will take to this friend of mine. How cosy that would be.'

'How awkward, you mean. How would I introduce you?' she asked,

'Honesty is the best policy,' he said. 'Tell her you shamelessly picked me up in a hotel bar neither of us could rightly afford and that you had the night of your life.'

'Oh, is that right?'

'That's how I recall it.'

'And is that what you will tell your friend?'

'Look, time is precious today. Say you'll meet me one final time. You have your whole life to forget me after that.'

'Well...' she said, pretending to ponder.

'Come on,' he said, mocking her.

'Let me think...'

'Don't think too long.'

'Oh, you think you're my only option in life?'

'I am your greatest and you know it. Come on, the sooner you agree, the sooner you can meet your sister and tell her how wonderful I am.'

'She knows me too well. She knows when I lie.'

'Harridan! Now you have to meet with me simply to apologise for that remark, otherwise you will be riddled with regret as soon as you disappear down those steps.'

'Alright, alright,' she said, 'Where do we meet you and your little friend?'

'Wonderful. Meet us at Rosie's, it's a little salon on the King's Road down from the square. Shall we say oneish?'

Sarah handed the remains of her cigarette to him and moved her hand from his.

'Save that for me.' She kissed him on the cheek, reassured that both of his hands were now occupied with the two cigarettes, 'See you oneish, Commander.'

'I think we now know each other well enough to be on first name terms.'

'That's not what you said last night,' said Sarah, already moving down the steps and turning from him. 'In fact, you insisted I call you Commander.'

'Did I? Sounds like something I would do, I suppose. Force of habit. Well, a simple 'Kent' will now suffice.'

'Kent?' she said, 'As in the county?'

'As in the name.'

'Well, then, it is nice to meet you, Kent.' Sarah continued down into the dark of the underground without being asked her name.

*

'I knew you knew him,' said Miles, 'but not quite like that.' He turned from the very same steps and away from Sarah. She followed, knowing he would not wait for her, and she had to raise her voice above the sounds of the city.

'But you suspected,' she said.

'What else would a husband suspect? I just assumed he was all talk.'

'We all have a past, Miles.' She trotted alongside him and took her position under the umbrella, beneath the sound of rain.

'No wonder he seemed so smug when he met me. What is it about him, exactly?' said Miles.

'He's just there. He was just there. Right place at the right time, I suppose. There's never any great mystery to these things.'

'I find it difficult to picture you together. Even then.'

'Because you don't want to. Because you don't see him the way others do.'

'I see him for what he is.' He turned from Sarah to the traffic and shouted for a taxicab.

'Yes, well, I suppose I saw him for what I wanted at that time, that particular day. You'll never get a taxi.'

'And me?'

'Well, I needed you. That was the difference. Always was.'

'And now?'

'Let's walk.'

*

The Plymouth train was late and Kent stood with his hands in his pockets as he examined the shine of his shoes on the platform. At some point since leaving the woman he had scuffed one of them, and he cursed the world and all its inconveniences. For a third time since he had arrived at Victoria station, he took his pocket-watch from his waistcoat. It still tallied with the station clock behind him and he cursed that too. As he considered abandoning his friend, the engine emerged from the brightness of the day that lingered at the far end of the platform, yet Kent's irritations remained.

As the train and its trail of carriages came to rest, the doors of each carriage opened and people spilled out from them, making their way towards him en masse. A distant arm waved at him and Kent raised a limp one in return while following the progress of a young woman who was in the process of passing him. She was not dissimilar to the one he had met the previous night, though perhaps bordering on too young, even for him. She ignored his stare as she walked right on by.

'Look lively,' came the familiar voice from a distance.

Kent turned to it and took a moment to put the name to the face, then the face to the clothing. 'You're late,' was all Kent could think to say.

'The train is late,' said Miles, 'I had no say in the matter.'

As they shook hands, Kent put his finger on the fact that this was the first time either man had seen the other out of uniform, and he was unsurprised that he was better dressed for the occasion.

'It's good to see you, Commander,' said Miles.

'Of course it is, but I suppose we should be on first name terms now.'

'I suppose we should.' Miles was aware of the expensive suit that his friend wore and made no reference to it.

'So,' said Kent, 'Here we are, loose in the big smoke for a few hours. Come, we have an appointment you have now made us late for.' He led the way out of the station with Miles a step behind. Kent always walked at a quicker pace than other men, to have them follow him. From the bustle of the station to that of the streets, the two men followed the traffic that hurried towards the river. They crossed the road without concern and made their way westward.

'So, Miles, out at last, eh?'

'At last. Shame it took longer than it did for you.'

'Privilege of rank. Feel good?'

'I suppose.'

'Well, that'll wear off, don't you worry. What are your plans?'

'Unlike yourself, I have none, but I hope to make some while I am here. What is this appointment we're rushing to?'

'You know I'd offer you a position at the firm, you know that, but it requires certain skills we both know you do not possess.'

'Such as accountability?'

'Indeed,' said Kent, ignoring the jibe and his friend's smile.

'It's fine,' said Miles, 'I'll find something.'

'I have no doubt, but times are not as easy as you may think. And, to answer your question, we're heading to the Borough of Chelsea, my boy, so behave. Keep up, will you.'

'You certainly landed on your feet with that firm of yours. It must be a relief, to both of you. Why Chelsea?'

'This way,' said Kent, as he guided Miles with a nudge of the elbow. 'I made that firm a lot of money. They need me, and yes, it is a relief.'

'And how is Catherine?'

'Determined to marry me, the poor girl. One must oblige. Can hardly blame her.'

'Well, of course. You must miss her.'

'Not now that I know I'll see her in a few hours.'

'Do you have to leave today?' asked Miles. 'I thought we could enjoy the city together until the end of the week.'

'I would like nothing more,' said Kent, 'but I must return for work. And Catherine, of course.'

'Of course.'

As the river disappeared from view, Kent glanced at his pocket-watch once again and relented his pace. Miles looked around at the red brick townhouses that flanked them. 'Kent, where exactly are we going and why?'

Kent leaned in to his friend and stopped him in his tracks with a hand to his chest, 'I need your absolute discretion here; careless talk, and all that.'

'Whatever are you talking about.'

'There is this woman,' said Kent, holding Miles's look of judgement and then discarding it.

'Ah.'

'And we are meeting her for your benefit.'

'Mine?' said Miles, unwilling to suppress his false laughter.

'Now, now. She is bringing along her sister for you to take a look at. I feel somewhat guilty that I can't hold your hand while you cope with London. You need to meet people. Good people. It will be good for you.'

'And you know these people well?'

'Well enough. Actually, I've never met the sister.'

'Of course you haven't. And what is the name of your one? What does she do?'

Kent looked at Miles for a moment of consideration.

'It escapes me,' he said, and smiled a smile that Miles had missed in recent weeks. 'Look, we shall meet them for a civilised chat, nothing more. My sleeper isn't until later this afternoon. Time enough to get you acquainted.' The arm that swung around Miles's shoulders moved him forward once again. 'But it goes without saying that the words 'Catherine' and 'engaged' should not be uttered.'

'Well I should say not.'

'Good man.'

'And how exactly do you know this woman?'

'Well, let us just say I know her, but I don't. We met over a rather expensive drink yesterday evening and got along famously. Her dry martini and my eighteen-year-old malt mixed surprisingly well. For some reason, she wishes to see me one last time before I leave.'

'To make sure you go?'

'You fiend.'

'So selfless of you to introduce me.'

'Isn't it?' said Kent, smiling through his teeth. 'What can I say, I feel a responsibility for my men. Even now.'

'This woman, whatever her name is, she must be special for you to meet with her a second time.'

'Yes. I suppose she must be.'

*

Miles and Sarah moved through the streets, retracing their steps of a day lost to their recollections. Unspoken words suggested that they now had no option but to return home. The car had been left with many others in the streets between Clapham Junction and the park, and they made slow progress along the embankment before Miles suggested seeing the King's Road for one final time.

'We may as well,' he had said. He had intended his recollection to be as painful and pointed as Sarah's had been to him, but she now seemed more intrigued than anything. The rain continued to force them together and she was intent on making the most of it.

'So he actually thought you and Alice might hit it off?' she said.

'I don't think he was really giving any genuine thought to it. Not that Alice wasn't appealing, you understand, she just wasn't you.'

'You mean, she wasn't the one who stayed behind with you,' Sarah said. 'Well, you certainly made a choice.'

'Yes, I did. As did you. Do you think Alice and I would have fared any better?'

'It wouldn't be difficult, but no, I think you are too similar.'

'You think?'

'You are practically one person at times.' She spoke without warmth. 'You both know your own mind.'

'No wonder you don't get on with her.' The remark silenced Sarah as they emerged from the residential street, and Miles focused his attention on their surroundings. Bunting came into view as they reached the main road.

'We should see if that cafe is still there,' he said.

'It isn't,' she said, 'I already looked.'

*

The cafe was not busy. The proprietor nudged the leaning waiter around the counter at the far end of the salon as the bell above the door sounded, annoying their one customer. Kent entered ahead of Miles and positioned himself at one of the larger tables by the window before the waiter could guide them. From his vantage point, Kent could peer through the glass and through the gold leaf lettering on the inside of it. Comfortable and confident, he assessed his surroundings. The clientele, a large lady in faux fur, scowled from the side of the room as Kent returned his attention to the busy road outside.

'Are we early?' said Miles, taking his place opposite. He raised his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the large lady and grinned, 'Is that her? We should at least sit with her, man.'

'Silence. We are late and so are they, it seems. Most inconsiderate.'

Kent relented and turned to Miles as the waiter took their order of tea before retreating across the ceramic glaze of the chequered floor tiles.

'This wasn't the kind of drink I had in mind,' said Miles.

'We don't want to scare them off now, do we?' said Kent. 'Besides, it's barely the afternoon. Control yourself.'

'You've changed. Look what society has done to you.'

'Here they come,' interrupted Kent, standing. 'Be at your best, now. You know how you get.'

Miles also rose to the sound of the opening door and the sight of Sarah and Alice walking through it. Kent welcomed them to the table as overlapping 'Hello's' were exchanged. He pulled out the chair next to his and guided Sarah to it, before she had any say in the matter. Alice seated herself next to Miles.

'Well,' said Kent, 'you can tell you are sisters, that's for sure.'

'Really?' Sarah said, 'I don't see it myself. Alice is beautiful, don't you think?'

'Nonsense,' responded Alice, removing her white cotton gloves and adjusting herself, 'we are both beautiful.' They shared a polite laugh.

'So, you two were in the same unit, I take it?' said Sarah.

'We...'

'Well, somebody had to take him under their wing,' said Kent, stepping on Miles's attempt to enter the conversation. 'Poor boy, there was a greater chance of him shooting himself than shooting anyone else.'

'So mean,' said Alice.

'Well,' said Miles, 'as you will soon discover, ten minutes in this man's company and you begin to contemplate such things.'

'Hear, hear,' said Sarah.

'Only now can he get away with saying such,' said Kent. 'Enjoy it while you can, Corporal.'

The two men shared a glance, as did the sisters.

'Stand easy, boys,' said Alice, 'You're meant to be impressing us, not each other.'

'I apologise for my companion,' said Kent, clicking his fingers for the attention of the idle waiter before displaying four fingers, 'He gets nervous and defensive around women, especially attractive women.'

'Is it not time for your train?' said Miles, glancing at his bare wrist.

'It is not,' said Kent. 'Not just yet.'

'You're leaving us?' asked Alice.

'You know he is,' said Sarah, 'I told you so earlier.'

'Yes, my dear, I am afraid so,' said Kent, 'But I have some time before I need to be at King's Cross.'

'And you, Miles,' asked Sarah, 'are you leaving us too?'

'I haven't really decided what to do yet,' he said. 'I am at a bit of a loose end. The world, what's left of it, appears to be my oyster.'

'No family?' asked Alice.

'None of any real note.'

'I have told him he is welcome to join me,' said Kent.

'Have you?' asked Miles.

'But he wants to see if there is anything, or anyone, worth hanging around here for. Little boy in the big city, and all that.'

'Was he this mean to you in the service?' asked Sarah.

'Meaner,' said Miles, his eyes fixed upon Kent, 'until I saved his life, that is. Then he became somewhat... sheepish? Is that the word?'

Kent laughed above their heads, disturbing the waiter who had appeared with the tray of teas and assorted paraphernalia. 'He put my life in danger in the first place.'

'How?' asked Alice.

'Please,' said Sarah, 'I am tired of the war. Let us talk of happier things.'

Alice frowned at her sister across the table as Miles leaned into her, 'I'll tell you later,' he whispered.

'To happier times,' said Kent, raising his china cup once the waiter had returned to his counter.

'To new friends,' said Sarah.

Alice, ignoring the toast, pursued a fresh line of enquiry.

'So,' she said to Sarah, 'remind me of how you two met?'

Both Kent and Sarah shared a silence as they recalled, before Kent dismissed the question with feigned interest in Alice.

'You are the real mystery here, Alice; it is Alice, isn't it?' he said. 'What is your story?'

'Me? I merely came to visit my lovely sister here for a few days before I report back to our parents who, frankly, are worried sick about her.'

'Oh? Why?' asked Miles.

'Because I can never keep in touch enough,' said Sarah.

'You could, but you don't,' said Alice.

'My failings as a daughter are balanced by dear Alice here,' Sarah said, 'Besides, they worry too much regardless.'

'They just want you closer to home,' said Alice.

'And I shall be, dear sister. When I am good and ready.'

'And where is home?' asked Miles.

'Well, for the parents, it is the Borders, but if I return, it would have to be Edinburgh for me. There is nothing where they are,' said Sarah. 'They are remote and cut off.'

'It is a beautiful part of the world and it is where I must return tomorrow,' said Alice.

'Oh, you should join me,' said Kent, 'I am going up this very evening.'

'Small world. Such a coincidence,' said Miles.

'Hardly,' said Sarah, 'It is how we got to talking yesterday.'

'But seriously, my dear,' said Kent with his gaze now fixed on Alice, 'we should go up together. It'll be fun.'

'No, I have things to do before I return, but I can accompany you to the station, if you like. I still have to buy my ticket.'

'Splendid,' said Kent, 'It's a date.'

'No it isn't,' said Sarah.

'And how about you?' asked Miles of Sarah. 'Aside from him, what is your story?'

'My story is frightfully dull. Came down here in 41, working at the MOD ever since. Nothing exciting, just secretarial, and waiting around for a reason to be elsewhere. Pretty routine. Thankfully, my war was uneventful. I shall head back north soon, I suppose. London is somewhat grim.'

'Never go back,' said Miles, 'That's what I always say.'

'Is it?' she said, 'And why is that?'

'Why repeat yourself?' he said.

'Well, I have family around me there. There is much to go back to.'

'And me, of course,' interrupted Kent. His attempt at humour was ignored by both Sarah and Miles as they enjoyed the sudden depth of their own conversation that he was now threatening.

'In spite of that,' Sarah continued, 'I do miss the comfort of what is familiar.'

'Is London not familiar?' asked Miles.

'It will be, once I leave it behind,' she said. 'Perhaps I'll come back one day. Who knows. I won't know until I leave.'

Kent steered them away from seriousness and dominated the remainder of their time in the salon. Miles felt pained at the thought of sharing any greater time with his friend, especially within the confines of a sleeper carriage, and had been convinced by the sisters to remain in the city. Before they had a chance to order stronger drinks, Alice reminded Kent of the passing time and the need to make their way to the station.

'Already?' said Kent. 'My, how time flies. Well, Miles, you know where to find me. Sarah, look after him for me. He knows where to find me.'

The foursome disbanded with stilted affections as they split into couples; Kent and Alice leaving Miles and Sarah to themselves.

The bell was still ringing above the door when Miles spoke. 'Do you trust him with her?' he asked, as both he and Sarah watched them vanish from view.

'It's more the other way around,' said Sarah, 'She can more than take care of herself. I feel sorry for him; he's going to waste his time there.'

'Don't underestimate him,' said Miles with a smile.

'Well, it is getting on,' Sarah said. 'Don't feel obliged to walk me home.'

'Oh, I don't have anywhere specific to go just now, so it's no trouble. I'd like to walk the streets awhile with you, if that suits?'

'So long as you don't mind going south of the river. I can show you Battersea. You don't mind that, do you, Miles?'

'Why would I mind?'

Across the river and onto the path that ran parallel to it within the park was where the rain first fell for them. It was to be an abstract memory that would stick with Miles for all of his years and help anchor his recollections of that day; a conversation with a woman he did not know, and who he thought he was getting to know. They bonded over the link that joined them.

'He's an interesting fellow, that Kent,' she said.

''Interesting' is a word for him,' said Miles.

'Are you good friends? It is hard to tell.'

'We know each other as well as friends should. Let's leave it at that.'

'Okay.' And she did.

'You are attracted to him.'

'What makes you say that?' she said, laughing playfully.

'Everybody is,' said Miles. 'He's just one of those types, isn't he? Effortless.'

'You sound a little bitter.'

'Is it that obvious?' He watched the river flowing alongside them. 'No, not bitter. I am just different from him, that's all.'

'In what way?'

'Well, I suppose I am somewhat introverted. Kent is fond of saying I am him, only turned inside-out.'

'Sounds like a compliment to me.'

'He doesn't mean it as such.'

'You seem to get on, though. Like brothers.'

'Brothers get on because they have to.'

'Like in the service, I suppose.'

'Yes. And much like sisters?'

'We get on, but yes, we are also different.'

'She seems very nice.'

'She is. I love her dearly, but we barely know each other. We usually meet like we did today, in passing. Perhaps that is why I love her dearly. Do you think he will try his luck with her?'

'Who, Kent? Of course he will. He can't not.'

'Well, good luck to him, I say,' said Sarah, as she guided Miles to a path moving away from the river, through the trees and into the heart of the park itself.

'No plans to meet him again?' asked Miles, hopeful.

'Of course not.'

'Well, that is probably for the best,' said Miles.

'What makes you say that?'

'Well, I doubt his fiancée would approve.'

For what seemed like an age, only the sound of their footsteps on the gravel accompanied their silence.

'I doubt he would have wanted you to mention her,' Sarah said. 'I wish you hadn't. Now I feel foolish.'

'I'm sorry. It's the only edge I have on him. And there's no need to feel foolish. How are you supposed to know unless he mentions her.'

'Such men normally stick out. Their confidence. That's what I thought, anyway.'

'Well, I am sorry to make you feel foolish, but you are not the foolish one.'

'Is she nice?'

'I don't know. She is with him, so...'

'Well,' Sarah said, arms outstretched to the green around them, 'this is Battersea Park, over there is Clapham, which is where I am going, and the river takes you that way. Be careful, though, the river is winding and will deceive you if you try to get your bearings by it.'

'Perhaps I shall come to Clapham with you, find somewhere to stay around there.'

'Well,' she said, 'I am sure you will. How long do you suppose you will stay in London. It can be expensive if you have no purpose.'

'A few days at least, until I figure out my next move. At least I know somebody here now.'

'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose you do.'

*

Rooted to the same spot as all those years ago, Miles shook the rain from their umbrella with Sarah next to him, cold. The rain still fell, but lightly, and Miles had closed the umbrella to see if Sarah would remain so close by him.

'And I stayed awhile. Only for you, mind,' he said, without looking at her anymore.

'And I knew that,' she said.

'Perhaps, if Kent had stayed, you would have ended up with him, right?'

'He was never built for a loving relationship. I know that. Poor Catherine.'

'Yes.'

'I must say, you're taking this all rather well. Are you?'

'How can I blame any man for seeing you as I do? 'Validated' isn't quite the right word, but let's say I feel validated.'

'He was simply there, and when he was there, he was my comfort.'

'Comfort?'

'He never needed me. That is his attractive quality, I suppose. Poor Catherine.'

'Poor Catherine.'

'I stooped to his level. But you have a right to despise him, as you have me.' She stopped herself. 'It's difficult to say, which is why I left that letter.'

Miles looked at the woman who was his wife. There was, to his eyes, a lack of concern on her face as she spoke.

'That reminds me,' he said, reaching into his coat pocket.

Sarah's face drained of what little colour it had left. 'Not an an easy thing to write.'

'Or read.' Miles produced a familiar envelope with his own name on it. He extracted the single sheet of folded paper. 'Less of a letter, more of a note.' He unfolded it as he offered it to her.

'It was the best I could do under such circumstances,' she said, taking the paper reluctantly. The writing was familiar in its similarity to her own and she recognised it instantly. It was convincing. Convincing enough to fool a husband. Some of the words were her own; the regret and self-loathing served little purpose and would have offered no comfort to a widower. But it was the words of kindness and love that were new to her, as was the absence of Kent, of the child, of confession, and the other pages. Her face fell.

'Alice had found it. Gave it to me a few days after, once she thought I was ready. Whatever that meant,' he said.

'What do you want to do now?' he asked.

She looked from the words to his eyes.

Thirty

'More than a shoulder to cry on,' muttered the old man to himself.

Alice Allsop was tired and did not ask the old man to repeat his mutterings. Despite her earlier threat, she was also too tired to throw the old man down the stairs, regardless of the temptation. Her hands hovered; one behind his waist, the other by his arm. Taking their time moving down the stairs together was a balancing act of sorts. She was aware that the old man considered himself capable.

Miles was aware that she knew better than he did. At times such as these, Miles considered himself cared for, perhaps loved in some way. Reaching the final step of the first flight, Miles staggered against the banister and Mrs Allsop flinched, ready to prevent him in some way. Acknowledging her anticipation, Miles raised the palm of his hand to calm her and flashed an irritated smile that came easily to him.

'Don't rush,' she said impatiently, 'There is no need to rush.'

'How many times must you tell me, correct?' he said.

'Don't get all clever, it doesn't suit you. Now take it steady.'

'I don't want to keep you. Don't you have to get back?'

'I do and I shall, once you have been fed and watered.'

The old man stared at her until she stared at him in return.

'You are the only person I know,' he said, managing a careful smile that made her more nervous.

'You are voluntarily unpopular and I refuse to pity you,' she said in her defence. It was habit to belittle him.

'I do not require your pity, Mrs Allsop. Believe me, the absence of others is underrated,' he said.

'You are a fool of a man and you chose to be such your entire life. Now put some weight on the banister. You're heavy.'

'Don't expect me to disagree with you, woman,' he said, and he held her gaze until she became uncomfortable with it, as he knew she would. 'I'll be honest with you...'

'Why?'

'Shutting out the world has been the worst thing for me and I do not regret it. Not for a moment. Life is a lot of bother, don't you think?'

'Of course it is. Your problem is that you expected it to be anything other than that. And you never shut me out. You tried, I'll give you that.'

'But you wore me down. Most folk gave up, some quicker than others, but not you.'

'Everybody needs somebody.'

'I disagree.'

'No you don't,' she said.

'Mrs Allsop, you will never know the satisfaction of unplugging a telephone, ignoring a doorbell, ignoring the world.'

'Don't be so sure. Watch your step. You just needed some time alone and that time was allowed to drag on for far too long. Somebody had to try and make you see sense.'

'Perhaps you are to blame then. You, that husband of yours, that wife of mine. You have made my life alone tolerable and not just for my sake. You should be ashamed, Mrs Allsop.' And he winked, which Miles had never done before.

'And yet here I am, holding you up, listening to your nonsense, day-in and day-out.'

'Samaritan. Doing the Lord's work, eh?'

'Oh, don't bring Him into it. You are in enough trouble as it is.'

'Reserving your rightful place in heaven.'

'I have no concerns there, no more than most. You just worry about yourself.'

'Well, forgive me,' he said, half-joking. It was now Miles who had to look away as he contemplated the final few steps ahead of him. In his hesitation, he decided against letting go just yet.

'Are you alright?' she asked with concern.

'Why no,' he said, brightly. He did feel dizzy but kept it to himself and shuffled onward, leading Mrs Allsop down with the passive determination they both shared.

'I do appreciate that you came by,' he said as he cleared his throat.

'You'd better. Watch yourself, now...'

'Every single time that you did. You need to know that.'

Alice Allsop did not know how to respond to this particular Miles, and she remained silent in her focus.

Miles continued, 'I don't know why you did so, but I do appreciate it.' He paused for a response that did not come, 'I am thanking you, Mrs Allsop. While I can. You could at least say something.'

'What do you want, a thank you for your thank you? You should not thank me.'

'I know your being here causes issues between you and... himself.'

'Yes it does, doesn't it,' she said with a smile. 'Now concentrate. Only a few steps to go. Almost there,' she said, her eyes to the carpet and the old man's feet.

'Yes,' said Miles, removing his hands from the banister railing, 'Almost there...'

With only a few steps to go, the old man felt the carpet slide from under him as he noticed Sarah move across the hallway, her sky blue chiffon gown floating in her wake. She moved to familiar music coming from the living room and she found a way through the people that loitered, each dressed in their best, talking in clusters, discussing themselves with drinks in hand.

Miles looked at the party guests as he addressed Mrs Allsop.

You don't hear it, do you? You do not even see it.

'Miles,' responded Mrs Allsop, 'Are you alright? Talk to me, dear.'

The men and women now in his hallway, in his home as it had been, were young, as he had once been. The music he heard was clear to him but the faces of the guests were not. He led Mrs Allsop into the living room without protest and they entered what was a room full of people only he could see. He rested a hand on her arm as he guided her through the party and its people. It was an attempt to reassure himself. Faces became familiar as he passed by them in the low-light of Sarah's lighting scheme. There were colleagues, friends, friends of friends, aunts and uncles and an assortment of dead relatives. They had all made themselves at home.

It was the last party of our life. I was remarkably drunk. I have never remembered all these people before.

Attending to the music at the phonograph in the corner was Sarah, drink in hand, half-attentive to her husband who was instructing her in some way. The recollection of himself turned from Sarah and made a way through the crowded living room.

I really wish I could remember myself better.

He saw Kent and Catherine, standing in silence across the room, looking sober.

Of course. He was here. He had been tolerable since the overdose. His was a veneer of forgiveness, of concern. Watch as their synchronised smiles greeted me as I approached and welcomed them to my home. I asked Catherine, and Catherine only, if she was having a good time and mentioned how nice it was to have her out to the house at long last. I could not have cared any less and you can tell by the way I looked interested. She thanked me for inviting her and lied about how well Sarah was looking. Kent said Sarah looked better and I returned the compliment, causing him to raise his occupied drinking hand to the bridge of his damaged nose. He admitted, much to my surprise, that he may have asked for it, and to accept that his presence that evening was his way of an apology. I said that his lift to the hospital was apology enough. It had been. He asked me why we went to London. I said we just felt like it.

I side-stepped and apologised to Catherine for hitting her husband and she applauded me for doing what she herself had been wanting to do for years. Kent then hushed her. Mrs Allsop, you appeared with Sarah on your arm and seemed closer than ever before, sharing whispered words. I introduced you to Catherine. Kent said nothing and you accused me of being drunk. It was playful, but you were annoyed at me for taking Sarah down to London without your say-so and it had annoyed you. Everybody seemed riled that evening. Except me. I knew what I was doing. Letting off steam incites bad feeling and I suppose we were there to let off steam. We did. You said it was a pleasure to meet Catherine again and she thanked you for saying so before she mentioned that Kent spoke of you and that she only believed anything he said when he was drunk. Kent then apologised for Catherine, which prompted her to ask him how he could dare embarrass her. They bickered before us in whispers. I was further amused. Kent was uncomfortable and I saw him smile through it at you, Alice, and you responded. Of course you did. Sarah did not look at me but at the spectacle before her. Kent found it a challenge to confront his wife while trying to impress you both.

Sarah refilled Kent's glass and neither spoke as she did so and no thank you was forthcoming. She then refilled mine and I thanked her and she did not look at me. I let the heat of the whiskey dwell in my mouth and then I sucked it through my teeth as I listened to all the bile coming from Catherine and from Kent as he told her it was neither the time or the place. He said this and she said that and they put on a good show and perhaps you were impressed. The whiskey hit me hard and all became a dulled noise. Catherine enquired as to why I had hit her husband in the first place and proposed a reenactment. Kent embarrassed her further by telling her he would drive her home once she had located her faux-fur coat. Catherine impressed me, which I kept to myself, while my wife asked her to lower her voice. I laughed inappropriately but thought it appropriate. Not one of you laughed and each one of you looked at me with judgement. I suggested to Kent that perhaps it would be best if he let Catherine leave by herself. For all concerned. Let her go and be rid of one another — good riddance. Catherine responded first by thanking me and stated that she did not require my help. I then suggested she then help herself and leave. Alice, you intervened as always, and recommended we play nice and enjoy ourselves. With my pointed finger aimed at Kent, I noted that he had no trouble enjoying himself or others, for that matter. I think I then moved my pointed finger towards my wife, but not one of you seemed to notice. Kent told me to be quiet, so I asked if he wanted me to hit him into the middle of next week. He told me to calm myself and stated that I would not get away with it a second time. I then suggested mentioning why I had hit him in the first place and his hand had a hold of my arm as he led me from the wives to the drinks cabinet where the music was loud enough to drown out the world and our conversation.

Kent refilled my glass as well as his own, fuelling us both, as the rest of the party ignored us. I said something along the lines of: fancy meeting you here. He either ignored or misunderstood the quip. I felt foolish and then felt angry. I asked if ingratiating himself was thirsty work and he told me to shut up without looking at me. He looked at the women across the room instead. Before I had a chance to say anymore, he told me that I was wrong and that Sarah was of as much use to him as she was to me or the rest of the world. I accused him of thinking I did not deserve her, and he said it was quite the contrary, that we deserved each other very much so. It was the way he said it. He said he felt sorry for the both of us. I think I said that it was they who actually deserved one another and that they would never get what they deserved, that I would make sure of that. As I said it, I may have pointed my finger at his chest, as he threatened to break that finger off.

Across the room, the women were consoling each other in tentative ways. Guests I did not want had filled my home and I felt uninvited to my own party. Everybody was there for Sarah, and she did not even want them there. I saw Sarah smile in the way she never did with me and I asked of Kent why she smiled for others, for him. He told me not to worry, that it was a smile of sadness and pity. In what must have been a moment of weakness, I told him that I had failed to make her happy, to give her what she truly wanted. Kent was staring at me and looked concerned as he did so. I mentioned, casually, that Sarah had told me everything in a letter that she had left for me. An apology of guilt. A letter never found. I lied and said I had read it. It shut him up for a moment. All he could manage after that moment was to tell me it changed nothing, and to not believe everything I read. He told me she was of a fragile state of mind and that I should not take her word for anything at the moment. I asked him what the Hell he knew of it and he laid a hand on my shoulder which I swatted away. In his irritation, he reminded me that he had been there for me and, though sick of having to apologise for me with increasing regularity, would continue to be so and that I should just remember that. I am sure that I told him that I appreciated his accompanying me to the hospital every day, and that I realised he felt an obligation to have me in his life, so as to have my wife in his life. He told me to be calm, that she was coming over, his words drowning in his drink as he tried not to look at her as she approached. Sarah did appear next to us and hoped we were getting along better. Kent found a smile and used it, telling her that I required more water in my whisky, that I was babbling, that I was still trying to locate my sense of humour.

Then Sarah was laughing. At me. I am convinced of it.

As I increased the volume of the phonograph, the volume of those invited reduced to a silence and I had the attention and focus I required. Kent asked me not to do it, whatever it was I was about to do, and so I did it. Only you, Alice, had the right to be surprised by my outburst. Only you were innocent at that point. The other guests, the friends of others, were oblivious to the foulness of our lives and the truth was indeed foul. Looking back now, I suspect Sarah's curious tolerance of my abuse, the violence of my words, was a result of fear of what I could say at any given moment. Sarah refilled her own glass as she waited for what seemed inevitable. The smile on my face was more disconcerting than any of my words and she knew from it that the course I was on was now irrevocable. No drink in the house, certainly not the one in her hand, was stiff enough for what she was about to receive.

I raised my glass, my empty glass, and toasted my wife. I spoke of her strength, her love, her compassion, her resilience. I am more convincing when others are drunk. I said all the things a man should say of his wife, and those that knew her turned away from my insincerity. Except Sarah. She looked at me for the first time in days. Each compliment was unfounded and she knew it and I continued. I announced that I counted myself lucky for having the love of the one I loved and assured one and all that it did not bother me in the slightest that she preferred anybody but me. I looked at Kent. As I did so, I wanted to stop myself, but even as I remember it now, I am at the mercy of myself. I demanded that glasses be raised, raise your damn glasses, and proposed three cheers for the mother of our dead child, the wife of our dead marriage. I cheered alone. I returned the silent stare of my guests. I told them to consider that I was the victim and then reiterated that I was the victim in a louder tone of voice. I told them over their tut-tutting that I simply said what they all thought, I just said it as someone who knew best. I told them they would leave as unconcerned about us as when they had arrived and that if there was anything, anything at all that they could do to help, I would never let them know, as there was nothing that could now be done. Not by them. I stated that I was exhausted trying to convince my wife in the goodness of the world. She is right and I concede defeat. This has all been a waste of time and I shall not have anymore of my time wasted by others. Nothing of what I say is unacceptable, as I have a right to say what I think. Disagree if you will, I say. And you will. I am in a minority of one. I tell them their coats are in the hall and tell them to go and to not come back. None are welcome. Blank faces. I ask them why they are still wasting my time. I shout them out of my life as I say that I cannot and shall not be held accountable for my actions should anyone remain behind. Sarah stays.

Now I know for sure it is all a blank being filled when you, Mrs Allsop, still wet from the rain, find a way through the crowd, between the bodies, and stand before me. I look to you without any further words, as I no longer have words to say. You find my hand and you are telling me I have fallen. I look around to those who look at me and to those who avert their eyes and I now know their lives have long since been lived. I find it both sad and comforting to remember them.

'You fell. You are too heavy to lift. Don't move.'

Miles could see the flight of stairs leading up and away from him as he raised his head. It was dark up there.

'Just lie still, Miles. I can't lift you. I told you to take it steady. Calm yourself.'

There was pain somewhere, but he was used to pain somewhere and it did not concern him.

'It will be alright, Miles. You have fallen.'

Lying at the foot of the staircase, his hand squeezing hers, he could smell her perfume as she knelt near him. He felt relief that it was no longer Sarah's voice in his head.

'They are coming. They are on their way.'

Miles thanked her and lay still.

I fell.

Thirty-One

Once all but one had left him alone, Miles conquered the drinks cabinet, leaving few survivors. The sleep he had found in his chair had done little to ease his sense of isolation, and his rage was masked only by tiredness and the effects of poorly mixed drinks. He stood carefully in the dimness of the living room and assessed himself. Considering what he had consumed in those hours, he now felt distanced from the previous evening's drunkenness. He was neither sober nor drunk, neither here nor there. His mind could not anchor itself to coherence. He knew that, should his mind ever clear, it would reveal pain.

There had been no desire to look at his watch to see what the time was. The curtains of the room remained drawn but were framed by the thin light of morning. He opened the curtains of the main window, revealing a day clear and bright and unsuited to his mood and he was glad of it. He turned and faced the room that so many had abandoned so suddenly the night before, never to return. Of what little he could recall, he sensed the damage to people's egos would be difficult to overcome, as he had no desire to overcome it. The guests, the friends, were of no importance. He was rid of them. Now he had her all to himself.

The whole evening had disintegrated into honesty. As guests had slammed the door behind themselves, Sarah had taken herself up to bed without a word to him. They would have words today, he decided. His gums shrank from his teeth and running his tongue over them did little to help. He located an abandoned glass of soda water and downed it. It shocked his system and he gasped for air as it went down. Perhaps it was not just soda after all, he then thought, but it did not matter. His shrink-wrapped skull was grateful for the anaesthetic of the alcohol. Sobriety would be slow in coming, a blessing that would ease him into the life that was collapsing with each flash of recall. A clink and a clatter came from the kitchen.

She was up.

His watch finally confessed that it was the middle of the day. Miles did not want to think about what needed to be said before saying it, he just wanted to let the situation take him. Before he could stop himself, he had made his way to the kitchen and stood watching Sarah as she held a silver knife in her hand, one of their better ones.

The knife and the look were pointed at him casually before she turned back to face the window of sunlight and continued the washing-up.

Despite the previous evening's entertainments, Sarah appeared to Miles to be fresh in appearance, too well-dressed for domesticity in her white blouse and patterned skirt, her hair pulled back stretching her face taut. She did not wear make-up, because she did not need to and she knew it. Perhaps she had made the effort to make him aware of what he was about to lose, he thought as he assessed her.

Still facing away, Sarah surprised him with a functional, 'Good morning,' and Miles felt better than to correct her on the point. The strength in Sarah's voice, clear and precise, made him nervous. She sounded as prim as she appeared.

'Morning,' he said, falling as much as sitting at the table.

'And how do you feel?' she said.

'Tired,' he said. 'Sick and tired.'

'Good,' she said.

So that's how it is.

He now felt sickness rising and took a seat at the kitchen table, leaning upon it as he faced his wife.

'You?' he said, 'How do you feel?'

'Miles,' she said, 'I also feel tired. Very tired.'

What have you got to be tired about, he had thought, but instead asked her if she had slept.

'I think I did,' she responded. 'Did you?'

'I drank myself to sleep.'

'I thought as much.'

'You could at least look at me when you speak. What are you looking at?'

She loosened her grip on the sink but did not turn to him. She raised her head to the world outside.

'Sarah, what are you looking at?' said Miles, again, sternly.

'Nothing. Nobody. And I don't want you to talk to me like that anymore,' she said, maintaining her poise and placing the knife onto the drainer. She placed her hands on the edge of the sink.

'Sarah, darling, I shall talk to you how I please. I have danced around you long enough. Now, look at me when I talk to you.'

She did not move and Miles did not know what to say next. His anger had overtaken him once again.

'Sarah,' he said, waiting.

The old man could picture himself quite clearly, sitting expectantly at the table. He had always seen Sarah, at the window, in the light, but now he saw himself precisely as he had been. The anger of the man may have seemed warranted in the moment, in many moments, but it looked ridiculous from this distance. Ignoring himself, he returned his attention to what he could remember of his wife.

I shouldn't have raised my voice, Sarah. I was tired of you because you seemed so tired of yourself.

'Sarah,' Miles pleaded, 'Say anything. Anything at all.'

She turned her back on the sunlight. She looked sad and beautiful. He looked as helpless as he sounded.

The old man stepped forward between the two of them and kept his eyes on Sarah.

I wanted what you weren't.

'Too little too late,' said Miles to the old man.

It's never too late.

'You will always remember it different to what it was,' said Miles.

There isn't much time left.

Sarah spoke with a faint smile, as if interrupting, 'I don't want you to love me,' she said. Her smile was compassionate.

Miles sat there at a loss.

'I don't want you to love me,' she repeated. 'It's not good for you.'

But it's all I have.

'I don't understand,' said Miles, sitting upright.

'I need to be left alone and you get in the way of that,' continued Sarah.

'No. You are a danger to yourself,' said Miles.

'I don't want you.'

'But you need me.'

'You need me, Miles.'

'Nonsense.'

Nonsense.

'That depends upon your point-of-view,' she said. 'I have terrible, terrible thoughts, Miles.'

The world is closing in.

'It seems as if the world is closing in,' she said.

The early hours.

'Those dark thoughts and feelings that we have in the night, when we think too much,' she said, 'I feel that all the time.'

'Why now,' said Miles. 'Why are you able to talk to me now?'

'Because I don't care any longer,' she said. 'Because you are making this up as we go.'

Miles stared at her.

'Don't go,' he said. 'I will not let you go.'

'You have no say, Miles. I don't want you to love me anymore. That's all there is to it.'

But I will not let you go. I refuse to. It is for me to decide and always has been.

The old man turned to himself, looking down with disgust.

'If this is about last night,' said Miles.

'It's about everything,' Sarah said as she sat next to him. 'It's everything.'

'Are you saying I am to blame?' Miles said.

'Blame doesn't come into it. It just is what it is.'

'You seem so calm about this,' he said.

'Only because I've given up. It's hard to put into words.'

'Try harder,' he said.

'I don't feel love,' she said.

No. She didn't say that.

'For me?' asked Miles.

'For anything. I care about you. But that's never enough. I see you becoming like me, because of me.'

'I want you to care about yourself.'

Stop putting words in her mouth. She just didn't know her own mind.

Sarah hung her head to avoid judgement. 'I'm not sure I ever loved you. Not in the way you say you love me, anyway.'

'I can't believe you are saying this,' he said. 'Why would you want to say this?'

'I just have to be honest. This is how I feel.'

'I don't understand you.'

'And I hope you never do.'

'You shouldn't say such things. It's not fair to say such things,' said Miles. Perhaps I should call the doctor again, he had thought.

Too late.

'Let me help you,' said Miles.

Don't.

'You can't,' she said, resting her hand on his, 'And I don't want you to try any longer.'

'How can I not?'

You'll fail.

'I can give you what you want,' he said.

Sarah squeezed his hand. 'Nobody can. Not even you,' she said, misunderstanding his intention. 'Please understand, I just don't want to be anymore. It's the only way I can say it.'

Perhaps it was exhaustion from the night before or from the many months and years before. The thought had been there all along and now seemed acceptable and necessary.

Don't do it. It is a mistake. Please, don't. Don't do it.

'It's already done,' said Miles to himself, sharing the same thought. 'It's the reason she never left. You should be grateful.'

But it was an accident. It was an accident. An accident.

'Keep saying it all you like,' Miles said to him.

Accident.

'Perhaps it was, but not anymore.'

The old man doubted a lifetime as Sarah then turned and spoke to him directly, 'I need you to help me. Isn't that why you're here?'

Those are not your words.

'Remember what you need to,' she said. 'Remember that you loved me.'

I remember you had no love.

'My child took my love.'

Our child.

'The letter, Miles. Don't forget the letter.'

Just tell me.

'The letter. I wrote it all down in words I could not say.'

The house is empty. There is no letter.

The old man looked upon his wife and himself. He could fill the blanks all he liked. He remembered what he felt, feeling adrift, that she was saying goodbye to him against his will. It was the essence of the end of their time. She had not been so vocal. He had not been so calm. Love and rage had become inseparable in those days, but he chose to forget about that when possible. Her words that day spoke no love and he had no desire to remember such words and he chose to block them out. He had needed to silence such words, in those days and in the days since.

'I don't know where to go from here,' she had said. He remembered her saying that distinctly. He remembered standing from the table with her hand falling away from his.

'I do,' he had said.

Thirty-Two

I remember the brightness. The midday sun lurked between the trees and blinded me as I drove, yet it did not bother me that day. I had other concerns, other thoughts to contend with, and it was thoughts of destination that occupied me. She sat silent beside me and made no further enquiry as to where I was taking her. Perhaps she knew, perhaps she did not care enough to ask. I did sense, however, a lightness to her since leaving the house. We spoke when we had something to say, when it counted for something. Perhaps she was relieved that she had spoken to me of her thoughts, thoughts that had been shielding her from the outside world and from those of us who cared for her. Her thoughts had unravelled and had told me all that I thought I needed to know about her. It was a release for both of us. Allowing her confused thoughts to manifest was a cleansing of sorts. The only problem at hand was that she seemed to believe what she had said. They were just words, after all, and only mean what you allow them to. How could she possibly have anything but love for me? I had tolerated her as much as loved her and it was not unreasonable to expect the same of her in return. She would tolerate me and she would love me. She had little choice now. Being honest with myself, I will readily admit to a certain degree of selfishness in regards to our situation, but it was for her own good, and I thought it would be for my own good too. Love is a mutual endeavour, of finding a way to survive each other for the course of one's life. At least, that's what I told myself. Our lives would be lived together one way or another.

*

Miles and Sarah Morgan sat in silence as they sifted through all that had ever been said between them. The day was too beautiful to disturb with any further discussion regarding their lives. The road down which the car moved along was absent of others, as if the world was theirs and theirs alone.

The purpose of the journey was of more importance to Miles than any destination he could think of. There, in the car that he drove, they were alone together and moving forward at speed, toward an as-yet-unknown destination, and the not knowing was what brought him comfort. The remote country of field and wood around them was what Miles would define as beautiful, and he did not ever wish to emerge from it, but any road he chose to take them along would come to an end eventually. They would tire and become accustomed to the beauty until it became commonplace and irritating. He could keep driving, but she would require a destination before long. To get her into the car, and to get them away from that house, he had given her the impression that there was a destination for them to reach together. The longer he drove, the longer it would take to return. He did not wish to return to that tainted life of theirs.

As the car crested the bridge, Miles looked to his wife in the hope of seeing a sign of recognition, perhaps even sentiment. What he saw was that she appeared focused on the road ahead of them, whereas any other person would look to the water and the flow of reflected sunlight. The bend approached and the temptation to look at her was greater than that of the road. Sarah turned to Miles and her face remained that of the woman who had spoken of her absence of love. It made Miles sad to see it. He turned his attention back to the road.

The motorcar was taking them south-east, away from the direction of the city, and Miles considered that he should have taken the road that led west of the fields into the heart of the country. The road stretched for longer into the west and they would have had more time. But it mattered little, as there were no destinations for them. The road accompanied the river as it flowed through the vale and carried them along to the major road that stretched north to south. The car hesitated at the junction and all Miles could think about was how he had wanted to be away from any of the major roads. The rest of the world lay along such roads and they would only interfere with their journey.

Sarah recognised the split of the road. 'The beach? Why are we going there?'

Miles had chosen a road with no other destination and could not think of any better place, so he said, 'I can't think of anywhere better to take you. I thought it would be nice.'

Somewhere within Sarah, she was appreciative of the gesture, 'Yes. Yes, it would be, I suppose.'

Stop talking, Miles had thought, driving over the wide road. Every word she spoke, every tone she used, every implication threatened to confirm his worst fears; that she actually believed and readily accepted the end of their time together. It was no longer within him to change her mind. She had decided, perhaps some time ago, that they had no further future. But though it was for her to retreat from her own life, to retreat from his was not her decision to make.

The edge of their world would soon be upon them. The fields on either side settled down to reveal distant views of the sea as the salt in the air came to them. The hills were now gentle rolls of the land and the motorcar took its time. A small rise in the road brought the nearby lighthouse into view. It rose up from green fields that gave way to the cliff on which it stood. The crisp white tower sat a little back from a homestead that, apart from the reddish-brown of its slate roofing, shared an equal crispness, and at a distance the tower was merely peeking over the slate. Behind both buildings, the blue of the sky was lost to the blue of the sea.

'It is a fine day,' said Sarah. 'A fine place to be.'

Miles agreed yet kept quiet. Words ruined everything.

In no time at all they had reached the railway crossing, which separated them from the sea and now impeded their progress, as the white wooden gates were closed before them by the signal master. The man made a hand gesture without looking at them as he brought the final gate from the side of the road to the rails, which Miles took as an apology of sorts, which he ignored. Miles applied the handbrake, removed his feet from the pedals and sat still. They waited.

They sat, waiting for any sign of the train, and they both looked to the direction from which they hoped it would appear. Miles rolled down the window to let the sea air in and to listen for the train until he heard it. Following its own noise, the train obscured the sea and the sky and the signal master as it emerged from his left, the engine dragging half-a-dozen or so carriages south. The noise was uncomfortable and invasive, but was soon smothered by the peace and quiet. The car's engine rumbled to life as the signal master returned the fence gates to the side of the road, just in time for Miles to pass by without striking them.

The road now followed the course of the cliffs and the stretch of beach came into full view. Without any thought of it, Miles drove them to the same spot they had always driven to, bringing the car to the top of a dune that provided them the optimum view of the sea. The engine kept running.

Miles sat contentedly. There was a sense of beauty to the place which, as far as he could see, was devoid of others. There was only her. The memory of the moment suited him just fine.

We did not sit for long, I remember that much. The silence was too much. I suppose now we could sit here for as long as I wish us to.

'We have better memories.'

This is where we need to be. We can sit and watch the sea. I knew that, once here, it would be difficult to leave. Impossible to return. Nothing good would come of it. There was nothing to go back to. I was right.

An old man sat where he had sat many years before, the day their life had ended. He looked at his hands on the steering wheel. Thick and strong, the inelastic skin draped over veins. He hesitated in remembrance and then reached out to the ignition.

And then I turned the engine off. It was so peaceful.

'And you removed your foot from the brake.'

I released the pressure.

'On purpose?'

I have asked myself that all this time and now I can no longer say for sure. The years have been long and many and I can no longer believe a word I say.

The old man looked to his wife and saw her as she had been, staring out to the sea.

You are too distant now. Our life is a ruin.

There came a moment of stillness. Both the motorcar and the driver hesitated, just for a moment, and the slope of the earth was slight.

Perhaps there wasn't the time to think.

He sat still with his hands on his lap and looked ahead of them.

All I saw was the horizon.

Then, with a slightness of movement that they felt together, the horizon came to them. The wheels turned.

'And you just sat there,' said Sarah.

And I just sat there. I have always remembered that I did nothing. It was all I had to do to give you what you wanted.

'You killed me.'

I failed to save you.

The edge of the dune that had been visible to them then disappeared beneath them.

It was a way to be together.

'You sat there and you let it happen.'

I suppose I did.

The wheels found their momentum.

And I turned to you, but you did not turn to me. You put your hands out to the horizon. You said, 'Wait.' I thought it was what you had wanted.

The edge of the dune gave way as the weight of the wheels rolled over it, the front end of the vehicle tilted down toward the beach, the rear end tilted toward the sky.

Sarah Morgan reached out and braced herself against the dashboard as she felt herself slide forward.

'WAIT...' she said, inhaling her final word.

They slammed into the slope with such a force that the grill became buried in the sand, freed a moment later as the car flipped over itself. The force of motion returned the car upright and it slid down, coming to rest on the shingle. They faced the sea once more with only the sound of the receding tide and the breeze amongst the marram grass filling the air.

Miles opened his eyes to see the beach stretching away from him. He could see far into the distance. He could see the cliff around which they had once walked, around which they had once disappeared. The sun felt bright and harsh once again, and he lifted his head reluctantly from the steering wheel, stiffness threatening pain, and he became aware of blood. With his face still close to the wheel, he turned and rested his head back down once again.

She was still there. She was still with him.

You had sand on your dress and I could not think at first why you would have sand on your dress. I could not think why there would be sand in the car. I looked at your dress because I think I was avoiding looking at your face for as long as I could. I think, if you had asked me right there and then whether I could remember the sound of your voice, I would have said not.

Sarah was slumped forward in her seat, her face still in profile as her forehead rested on the dash, the weight of her body arching her neck downward. Her necklace swayed and glinted, catching the sun. Beneath her lay the contents of her bag which had been by her feet. Inconsequential bits and pieces lay strewn about; her compact, handkerchiefs, an address book, things.

Miles could see no view of the day behind Sarah, as it was obscured by the roof of the car that had impacted onto her. It was the roof that had kept her head in the position it now rested in.

I just knew, but I reached out my hand anyway and I took hold of yours. I had broken some ribs, my pelvis. It did not hurt. I sat there for some time and I did not feel a thing.

Thirty-Three

They both stood waiting. Alice Allsop buttoned up her thick cardigan on her husband's instruction and folded her arms once again. It was a pleasant day, but she was rarely comfortable. Kent put his arm around her shoulders and she felt the warmth of him in an instant. Despite the years, she thought, he still had a firm hold.

'Well,' said Kent. 'I think we can safely say good riddance. A long time coming.'

'Yes, dear,' said Alice, 'but it wasn't our decision to make, was it?'

'Until now.'

They remained rooted to the spot by the outbuilding as they watched the recovery lorry ease away from the house, the damaged remains of a motorcar along for the ride. They wanted to be sure that the car was out of their lives.

'Good,' said Kent sharply. 'That's that, then.' He released his grip and his wife felt cold once again. 'Come on, back inside with you.'

Alice followed her husband back into the kitchen.

'I thought that the table could stay,' said Kent, tapping it with a determined finger. 'It's too large for us and the boys have no need of such things.'

'Fine,' Alice said, her arms still folded. It seemed to her to be colder in than out during the day, the heating having been off since the house had been vacated. 'The furniture man will be here on Thursday,' she said. 'To be honest, I think most of it should go. What use do we have for any of it?'

Kent muttered in agreement before saying, 'It is a shame, though. Such good quality. Built to last. It has served its purpose, I suppose.'

Alice had wanted to sell the property with the furniture included. The furniture belonged in that house and no other, she had thought.

'It still surprises me, you know,' she said, looking out at the world from above the sink. 'He just gave it all away.'

'He has no need for any it any longer,' said Kent. 'Besides, all of this should have come to you in the first place.'

'Perhaps.'

'No perhaps about it, old girl. You earned this place.'

'I did,' agreed Alice, allowing herself a smile. It was strange, she thought, to be smiling in this house once again.

'It's not too late, you know,' Kent said to the back of his wife's head, unaware of her smile.

'No, no. We have our home. We have our memories there. This is just a house.' She did not believe in what she had just said, but she did not wish to discuss the matter further.

Kent left her to her thoughts as he moved through the hallway to the living room. All of the old furniture sat shrouded beneath sheets. Kent removed one, winding it slowly around his arms to reveal the reclining chair.

'Silly old fool,' he said aloud.

Miles had insisted upon the shrouds, as if the furniture were hibernating. He had assumed the house would remain as it always had been. Alice, granted power of attorney some time ago, had decided to sell. With her sons abroad and a home of their own, she had thought it best to put the house on the market. Her nostalgia for the place had been shrouded rather than enhanced over the years.

With all the dust sheets now folded and stacked on the recliner, Kent indulged himself and approached the silent record player in the corner.

'I never really thought about it before,' said Alice, walking into the room, 'But there is some terrific stuff here. We should really get some of it valued.'

Kent struggled as he bent and retrieved a pile of records from beneath the record player. He strained with the weight of them and placed them quickly on the table.

'Look at this stuff. Old 78s. My word, this takes me back,' he said, sifting through them.

'Yes, he often listened to those. I'm surprised they still play. It's amazing how some things last.'

'Well, with the player, they should fetch a few bob.' He patted the pile back into a neat stack.

'Oh, no, they're worthless. People don't want those things anymore. They have no use for them.'

'You don't want them?' asked Kent.

'Why would I?' she replied, tersely.

'Well, we'll be rid of it all soon enough, then we can put it all behind us.'

Alice looked around the room. Without the dust sheets, she saw it as it always had been.

'No,' she said, 'No, we shouldn't put it behind us. We shouldn't.'

'Well, whatever you say, dear.'

'What time is it?' she asked.

Kent consulted his watch, 'Oh, it's coming on for three.'

'Already? Where does the time go? I should leave. Visiting is from three to five.'

'You sure you don't want me to come along,' said Kent, not wanting to go along.

'Quite sure. You'll be fine here for a bit, won't you? I'll pick you up on the way back. I won't be long.'

He raised his hands, 'You take as long as you need.'

'Now don't you get any ideas, Kent Allsop. I know you.'

He smiled at the finger now pointed at him. 'I'm sure I don't know what you mean,' he said.

'The removal men will take care of things. Don't touch anything and, for God's sake, don't lift anything. That's what we're paying them for.'

'Yes, dear.'

'Alright,' she said with resolve. 'I shall head off, then. Get it over with.' She went into the hallway in search of her coat and keys.

'Are you sure you have to go?' asked Kent as he trailed behind.

'Somebody has to,' she said. She slid her aching arms into the coat that Kent held for her, and took the car keys from the hall table where her handbag waited. She placed a hand in her coat pocket to reassure herself with the feel of the envelope within.

'He doesn't deserve you, my dear,' said Kent, opening the door for her. She kissed his cheek in passing.

'No, dear,' she said, holding his stare as her tired smile relaxed. 'Neither do you.'

Kent waved her off as she drove too fast down the driveway, pulling out onto the road as she abused the generosity of first gear. Kent found himself in the silence of the house once he had closed the door and had stepped back into the hallway.

'Alone at last,' he said, as much as to the house as to himself. He massaged the back of his hands as the cold aggravated his arthritis and he cursed it out loud. With time to kill, he decided to pry. He opened a closed door and inhaled the musty air.

He began the process of sorting through boxes of possessions that he felt his wife would like to hold onto after further persuasion. As he opened one, a stale smell was released and Kent blinked in the blinding dust that rose up from it. Miles had been a friend. Sarah had been a friend, of sorts, and Kent could not ignore the pang of guilt as he invaded their privacy. That guilt made way for the thought that he was not searching for anything other than his own past, as parts of his own life were packed away in the boxes too. The number of boxes and possessions had increased in recent days. The room was now a storage space for those items Alice had yet to decide upon; objects of sentiment, sentiments which would be of no interest or use to others. Ornaments, jewellery, photographic albums and pictures in frames. Bedding, china, boxes within boxes.

The box Kent had open had five frames separated by bubble-wrap and newspaper and all but one of them fitted comfortably within that box. The frame that nudged the folded leaves of the lid caught his attention first. He flipped it around to a portrait of a baby. He felt it was as old as he himself was. The grey monochrome of the print of the smiling child held Kent's attention as he tried to decipher if the child was Sarah, or Miles, or perhaps even Alice. At such a young age, it was impossible to tell. It was not the baby he was looking for.

Kent placed the frame on the carpet next to the chair he now sat himself on and took out another frame, then another, then another. All images of childhood. Somebody else's sentiments. Unsure of what his wife intended to do with them, Kent put them back as if undisturbed. Next, a black bin liner with a tight knot. Impatient, he tore a hole in the plastic next to the knot and glimpsed bedsheets. What was Alice going to do with all these sheets, he thought with exasperation.

Another box, this one marked 'Fragile' on one half of the lid in Alice's attempt at handwriting. Kent accidentally tore the cardboard as he opened the lid and within it were three smaller, tightly packed boxes. Two were old shoe boxes, one was not. Kent pulled at the one that was not. He extracted what was a jewellery box of dark wood. It was simple in design, and opened in the centre as he peeled the two halves of the lid away from each other on small brass hinges. Inside was a mass of tangled chains and pendants and Kent pulled them out as one. The pendant that caught his eye was one he had not seen for many years and had since put out of mind. He let it twist in what daylight was left coming into the room as it hung beneath the ball of chains in his fist. It took him a moment to identify the feeling of shock he now felt at his find. The decades had not diminished his familiarity with the object, and the thought that she had kept it at all was hard to digest. He had only seen her wear it that one time.

*

Kent removed his hat as he peered through the narrow opening of the door into the kitchen. He rapped a knuckle on the thick wooden frame, light enough to be unheard, and then pushed the door. The kitchen was empty. He moved through it feeling like an intruder, and gently placed a bottle of something gift-wrapped onto the wooden table he passed. Once in the hallway he said, 'Hello?' to the house and the house did not respond. The living room was still, as was the reception room. After a few more 'Hello's', he made his way halfway up the staircase.

'Sarah? It's me.'

He heard soft steps approach, muffled by carpet, and Sarah's face emerged hesitantly over the bannister rail above him. She seemed perplexed.

'It's you,' she said.

'Yes, it's me. Did Miles not mention I was coming over? I'm early.'

'No, he did,' she said as she adjusted herself.

Kent smiled with caution. Sarah looked her beautiful self, he thought, even without a smile, but she was creased and somewhat dazed. He assumed she had been napping.

'The door was open,' he said, 'I let myself in.'

'Yes you did.'

She poured a generous amount of brandy into the crystal glass and carried it with a coaster from the cabinet to the dining table. Sitting down, she placed the drink before him. Before it had a chance to rest on the coaster, Kent rescued it from her hand; it hesitated at his mouth as he spoke.

'Are you sure you won't join me?' he said.

Sarah shook her head, 'Doesn't agree with me.'

'But that is the whole point,' said Kent, the brandy burning its way down his throat. He considered the remains of his glass. 'That's the spirit, alright.'

'He'll be home before long. He can keep you company,' she said. 'I really didn't expect you here so soon.'

Kent sensed Sarah's embarrassment at being caught off-guard and enjoyed the advantage. 'Well, I finished early so thought I'd just come straight down. I'm not in the way, am I?'

'Don't be polite. I just didn't expect you yet.'

'Well, here I am.' He set the drink down but kept his hand firmly around the glass to warm it. Sarah's joylessness was infectious and he settled back away from her against the hard back of the dining chair. 'So, how are you settling in?'

'Still settling. It feels different to how it used to.' Sarah wanted to resist the temptation to be candid with Kent. Previous such indulgences had only served to give him an advantage over her. To give him wrong impressions.

'How so?'

'It's as if we are tenants, or guests. Miles was always a guest here. It doesn't seem to bother him.'

'And now he's the master of the house,' said Kent, staring at Sarah as she avoided his eyes.

'I suppose you could say that,' she said.

'How is he?'

'He's fine so let's not talk about him.' The words fell over themselves and Sarah knew she had spoken as if all was far from fine. She slid out from the table to avoid the conversation, approaching the sideboard. 'Music? I like to play music. This place can seem so quiet. Even with music it can seem quiet at times.' She placed the needle of the player onto the record that sat on the turntable, one which she had enjoyed earlier in the day. Staccato jazz guitar eased into the room and accompanied her return to the chair next to Kent. She thought she should have used that opportunity to sit farther away from him, but it was too late now.

'Well,' he said, 'you have yourself a beautiful home here, Sarah. You must be happy. Pleased with yourself.'

'How's Catherine? We haven't seen her for such a long time.'

'Lucky you,' said Kent.

'You shouldn't.'

'We can be honest with one another, can't we? After all, you've met her.'

'Yes, but she's your wife. She's a good person.'

'Try telling her that.' He swallowed down the unspoken words about his wife along with the remainder of the brandy. 'Be a dear,' he said, waving the empty glass at her, and Sarah dutifully replenished it, bringing the bottle to the table.

'Things still sour?' she asked, 'Miles doesn't exactly tell me much.'

'Because I never tell him much. It has little to do with him. My affairs are my own.'

Sarah ignored the comment. 'Well, I'm sure you'll iron things out eventually.'

'I would be loathed to iron things out,' he said as he leaned forward. 'It would be insincere. She is just another mistake.'

Sarah had turned her eyes to the table top where she was busy picking away at the varnish. Kent looked around the room for an escape and saw it next to a picture by a small vase of heather on the sideboard. 'That you?' The question was rhetorical, as the framed photograph was a family portrait from younger, happier days, 'And that must be the lovely Alice.'

'Yes, that's Alice.'

'Not married yet?'

'You know she isn't.'

'So what's wrong with her?'

'She knows her own mind.'

'My kind of woman.'

'Many men don't find such a quality attractive.'

'Many men are fools. She was the spit of you even then. Yes, very interesting.'

'Be careful, she's much tougher than she looks, remember?' Sarah placed her hand on Kent's arm as he reached out to point at the portrait. 'You're not her type.'

Kent sat back, 'I'm everybody's type when I need to be.'

They shared silence while only Kent thought of something to say. Sarah was looking to the bay window, distracted by the gentle swing of the music that refused to let her thoughts darken too much. Kent took the opportunity to admire her as he always had. It was only then that he noticed the necklace.

'You wear it, then,' he said, hiding behind his brandy.

She followed his eyes and her hand went to her neck instinctively, 'It is beautiful, but that is all it is.'

'Really?'

'I should never have accepted it. Miles noticed it and assumed it had belonged to my mother. It would have appeared strange had I stopped wearing it. He likes to ask questions.' She removed her hand, 'Don't read anything into it.'

'What we shared before you met Miles was nothing compared to what we have shared since. Relax. We've both moved on. It makes me happy to see you wearing it, that's all.'

'I didn't even think of it when I put it on today. You must understand, I do not think of you.'

'I'm sure of it,' he said, not believing a word of it. He addressed the brandy, 'We are not all blessed with your happy little marriage,' and immediately cursed himself for saying such.

'You might find what you need if you stop looking so hard for it.'

'Please don't tell me about myself. I hate it when people tell me about myself. I admit to my failings, unlike some I could mention. We both know you have your own doubts, but you don't act on them, do you? No. You wait and see, just like the rest of us.'

Sarah knew she was digging a hole for herself. He would be home any minute and then there would be no more time for private discussion. She eased the glass from Kent's hand and finished the brandy before returning it to him.

'He'll be home any minute,' she said.

'Happy families.'

'Don't.'

He placed a hand on hers, 'Look, I just want to know that you are fine, that you are coping.'

'How is one meant to cope, exactly?' she said. 'Though you seem to manage. And Miles too, for that matter.'

'He manages in his own way. As do I.'

'I'm sorry, Kent. I am.'

'Don't say it like that,' he said. 'You say my name like that, you make me sound like a stranger to you.'

'Well then I am just sorry.'

'It isn't easy,' he said, reaching for the bottle to prove a point. He glanced over to see her head hanging. He could not tell if she was crying yet. 'Is this place, is being here, is it good for you?'

She spoke to the floor, 'It's home.'

'Don't be alone.'

She raised her head and was far from tears. 'I am not.'

Sarah loathed the obligatory pity that Kent felt the need to exhibit whenever they had time alone, but she let him indulge himself. She thought it was his way of dealing with things. And here she sat, her hand underneath his.

'She would've been two next month,' she said to him. 'Did you know that? Two already.'

'Yes. Of course I know that.'

'We never speak of it. Miles, I mean. 'Her name is not to be mentioned',' she said, quoting to the room. 'But I mention her name when he is not around. I have many names for her now. She sometimes talks to me. We sit together. She keeps me company.'

Kent remained silent.

'It must sound silly,' she continued, lost in her thoughts. 'I never talk like this with Miles. He deals with it in his own way. I shouldn't get angry with him but I do, inside. He wants another, did you know that?'

'No. He never discusses such things.'

Sarah smiled. 'No, he doesn't, does he? Yes, he wants another. That's his solution; just try again. Poor man. He's grieving for a child that wasn't even his.'

'Poor child,' said Kent under his breath.

'Not even a child,' Sarah said. 'Not given a chance to be that.'

'Don't say that,' said Kent, 'Don't say such things.'

Sarah removed her hand from under Kent's and placed it on top, 'I am facing facts and coming to terms. How about you?'

She removed her hand before Kent had a chance to enjoy the touch and she wondered how the scene appeared to Miles, who now stood framed by the doorway. Kent, though, had heard the car on the driveway and turned calmly to his friend, raising his arm aloft from the table.

'Well hello there! The bread winner returns once more,' said Kent, almost hollering across the gratuitous space of the room. 'Nice day at the office, dear?'

*

Kent pulled the dishevelled handkerchief from the sleeve of his sweater and wiped his brow. Stacking the boxes had taken it out of him, but there was time to sit calmly and get his breath back before Alice returned.

The last hour had been spent sifting through possessions and reminders and Kent had taken it upon himself to divide everything into two piles of neatly stacked boxes. One pile was destined for the charity shop, church sale, or whatever Alice thought best. The other pile, the smaller pile, was to be kept. Alice would no doubt sort through it all again and choose her own memories, but Kent had at least put aside what he wanted and what he thought Alice would want.

He leaned against the narrow windowsill, his faint shadow falling across the carpet, and let his head hang while he concentrated on his breathing; he did not know how many breaths he had left in him. He looked at the boxes around him.

'That's that, then,' he said.

Thirty-Four

Alice Allsop had driven through the neighbourhood on only a few occasions. Today marked the first time she had made it to the nursing home without getting lost amongst the red brick maze of semi-detached housing and deserted suburban streets. Crescents and avenues littered with speed bumps defied her joy in driving as she looked out for now-familiar landmarks. It had never been a town she had liked to visit, but the institution had been recommended by a friend and it was relatively local. She ignored the thoughts of what may await her in her own final days.

She entered the cul-de-sac she had been searching for. At the end of it stood the home, its camouflage amongst the private houses all around belied by the minibus in the driveway and the disabled ramps and handrails leading up to it. Once over the final speed bump, Alice mounted the pavement harder than her husband would have approved, and parked the vehicle more on the pavement than on the road. She checked the car as she walked away from it and was content to see nothing untoward, nothing hanging off.

She sidled by the minibus that filled the driveway and walked to the door at the side of the building, towards the chatter and clatter of the kitchen. She almost fell into the hallway as the door she pushed open was simultaneously pulled away from her by one of the male nurses. He stood before her, as shocked as she, dropping a pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter. They apologised to one another and the man, who Alice remembered as Alan or Alex or some such from her previous visits, showed her through to the so-called living room. He smiled as he abandoned her for his break.

The hush of the room was aggravated by the sound of a television in the corner that was turned down low. Lucky contestants jumped with joy while spinning a colourful wheel around and around and around. Only one other person in the room seemed to be attentive to the entertainment; a lean lady who looked through the walking frame that stood before her chair and no doubt restricted her view. The lady was sat at the farthest end of a semi-circle of residents, seated in order of decrepitude, so it seemed to Alice, all seated in high-backed chairs, all facing the rough direction of the television that most tried to ignore.

A female nurse, adrift somewhere in her late fifties and the youngest in the room by far, looked up and smiled. Whispering to a gentleman absorbed by a puzzle book, the nurse manoeuvred her large frame expertly between the chairs and across the room.

'Hello again,' said the nurse, whose name escaped Alice completely. 'He's upstairs in his room.'

As the nurse walked towards the main stairs, Alice followed, looking back at the gentleman in his chair. It was a children's puzzle book he had before him.

Once out of the living room and on the stairs, Alice asked the usual questions of the nurse, whose ample backside left no room for any glimpse of the summit.

'Oh, he's fine. Good days and bad,' said the nurse, with the familiar confidence and practicality Alice had adopted throughout her own years as a carer. 'He seems content to be in his room most of the time. We'd prefer him to mingle more, so perhaps you could speak with him. Otherwise, he seems content,' she said, stopping on the final step. 'Well, you know how he gets.'

Alice followed the nurse onto the landing and along the narrow, carpeted corridor. She thought it just like any ordinary home had it not been for the health and safety stickers, the signs, the occasional fire blanket.

The first door they passed was open. Alice glimpsed a little girl sat in a chair in the corner of the bedroom, swinging her feet and transfixed by her mother applying make-up to a resident who Alice assumed must have been the little girl's grandmother, and who sat perched on the side of the bed. Alice smiled at the girl who did not smile back.

The next door was closed and the nurse rapped a knuckle on it twice and entered without need of a response. Within the small room was a single bed against the far wall, a fitted wardrobe of white wood with a ledge for the small, black television set. Next to the bed was a table that held a lamp and a black plastic alarm clock with its red display flashing an incorrect time. Alice spotted the old man's plastic inhaler laying next to the clock and the old man himself occupied the one armchair in the corner, behind the door they had opened.

'Ah,' said the nurse, 'there you are. Your visitor is here again.' She made room as Alice squeezed by her and whispered, 'I'll bring you a tea in a moment. Just milk, isn't it?' She then left the room, leaving the door open to the muted sounds of life coming from downstairs.

Alice stood by the bed and looked at the small double-glazed window that Miles was looking through. There was little she could see; chimneys, slate rooftops, slate sky. She placed her handbag onto the bed and perched herself next to it. The thickness of both the mattress and the duvet only just allowed her shoes to rest flat on the thick carpet. She looked to Miles who had yet to acknowledge her, either with words or with eyes, as had been the case on previous visits.

'Are you well?' she asked. 'They say you are well.'

Miles sat still.

'We've been clearing out today,' she said. 'Still a ways to go, but the solicitor will have the keys on Monday, so it will all be done by then, one way or another.'

Miles sat still.

Alice adjusted herself and unbuttoned her coat. 'The car is gone. The chap from Corrigan's took it away this afternoon.

Miles sat still.

'Well, you don't need to worry about any of that.' She reached over and pushed one of the grey buttons of the plastic alarm clock so that the incorrect time stopped flashing.

'Kent sends his best,' she lied. 'He may come with me next time. You look tired, Miles. Are you sleeping?'

'All the time.'

'Warm in here. You must be melting,' she said.

Miles sat still.

'It's cosy,' Alice said.

Miles sat still.

'How's the food?'

She had little to say. Seeing the old man here made her feel as much guilt as fear for her own future. It was a daily surprise to her that she had lived as long, and as well, as she had, and now she was having her thoughts drawn to the tapering end of her time. She now considered that her assumption of spending her final days in her own home may prove too much to hope for.

'You really don't need to come every day,' said Miles, now looking away from the window and to her. 'It's quite a journey.'

'I won't, but I'll come when I can.'

'Don't feel obliged.'

'How's the hip?'

'Tea!' bellowed the nurse as she entered the room brandishing a steaming mug. She placed it onto the bedside table. Alice thanked the nurse, who ignored her as she turned to Miles with most of her huge frame obscured by the door. She raised her voice, 'Do you need anything, dear?'

Miles considered a variety of responses, all designed to upset, and simply shook his head at her.

'Okie-dokie,' said the nurse, and her large head disappeared behind the door.

'They do seem nice here,' said Alice.

'Don't they just,' said Miles.

Alice reached for the mug and burned her tongue as she sipped. Her wince was visible.

'It really is exceptionally appalling, isn't it?' said Miles.

Alice smiled at him through the pain, 'Well, it's hot,' she said. 'Miles...'

'Alice...'

'If there is anything you need, anything from the house, you will say, won't you? You need to tell me now before it all goes.'

'I've told you, I have no need of any of it. You can do as you wish and you can take what you want. It's all yours.'

'Well it's very generous of you.'

'Hardly,' he said. 'A belated thank-you.'

'For what?'

'Your help. Your patience.' Miles raised his arms slightly, 'You got me here,' he said without a smile.

Alice had yet to judge his current mood successfully.

'You did thank me. Before your fall. And before that. You've always thanked me.'

'Sarah would have been proud of you,' he added.

Alice felt annoyance deep down, as she always had. 'Well, I made a promise. She made me promise to keep an eye on you should anything ever happen to her.'

'Did she now?'

'She did.'

'I thank you regardless.'

Alice ignored him and continued with her thoughts, smiling to herself. 'I had to promise, because that's what you do, isn't it? I never thought something would actually happen to her. You just don't, do you? You don't expect anything to happen. I still don't.'

'Things happen every day.'

'Yes.'

'But that was the worst day.'

They both thought of the same day.

Alice spoke, 'I still remember that policeman who came to the house. I showed him through to the lounge, thinking I must have done something wrong, as if I were trying to convince myself. It is a hard thing to put into words. A policeman in my home. It felt wrong. I remember sitting apart from him and he just came out with it, said that there had been an accident, that it had been fatal. He left me alone. He showed himself out, I suppose. I don't remember. After a time, I made the calls I had to make. Not the kind of telephone calls one wishes to make. And so many. Then Catherine, of all people, she came for me and drove me to the hospital, to see you. Remember? You didn't say much then, either. You couldn't. You lay in pain. Curtain around your bed. Privacy for your grief, away from the world.'

Miles looked at Alice.

'So much of it is forgotten,' she said, 'and for the best. As soon as I knew she was gone, she was.' She raised her head. 'The things one remembers.'

'And the things one forgets,' said Miles.

'Yes. I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on,' she said, and forced another smile.

Miles brought his hand to his own head, supporting it.

Alice looked down at her hands. 'Yes. Some things are worth forgetting and perhaps that is why we do. But it's the little things that stick. Markers placed at random without any say-so. Of all the time, all the moments, I can count them all on my fingers. Even those not very well.' She found her resolve and turned to the old man. 'But, I suppose it's the experience of it all more than the memories.'

'I don't know,' said Miles, 'Memories are safer. Selective.'

'Not for me,' she said. 'My head is a sieve.'

'Fill the gaps.'

'With what?'

'Whatever you wish. Doubt yourself for long enough and you become convincing.'

'Well, for me, you just have to live the best you can, I suppose.'

'Yes,' said Miles, skeptically, 'but then what?'

'What do you mean?' she said.

'I mean what I say. Don't be dense, Alice. You have surrounded me with death. Do you think this, here, is still living? Those people downstairs are not living.'

'It's all a part of it, Miles.'

'There are better parts. I prefer those parts. I always have. I remember being alone.' Miles leaned forward in his chair. 'And it felt good, Alice. It felt good. I felt like how I had always wanted to feel about life. It was grief, and I needed to hang onto it because I was then aware of life. I know, I know, I could have remarried, had children, done all of it. I chose not to. I made a choice that was mine to make.'

'And you've been alone,' said Alice. 'All your life.'

'I've been exactly where I wanted to be. Sarah never has to sit in a room like this. And she's always been there for me, whenever I needed her. It's been such a long time, yet I remember little of life since she went. I didn't need that time and I didn't want it.'

'But such a waste.'

'For you, from your point-of-view? Yes, perhaps. But you? Are you sure you have had such a wonderful life? As you say yourself, you don't even remember most of it.'

'I just know,' said Alice, 'You are an unhappy person, Miles Morgan, you just accept it, that's all. It doesn't make it right.'

'I am comfortable with that. Look around this room and tell me what to be happy about, what to look forward to.'

'You had your time, dear. We've all had our time. You now have it easy because you have nothing to lose. Well, I do, and perhaps that's why I know I have had a good life.'

The old man stared at Alice and took a breath.

'A good life?' he asked. 'With him?'

'Yes. With him.'

Alice noted the old man's look of doubt and reached a hand into her coat pocket. She pulled from it the old letter within its unsealed envelope. Miles did not register it.

'Well,' said Miles, 'You know your own husband better than anyone, I suppose.'

'Oh, I know him, believe me. Even he doesn't know how well I know him. Miles, I know things, things that were meant for you to know. Things about your wife that she needed you to know but could never say herself.'

Miles then noted the envelope in her fist.

'What is that?'

'Truth. It was never mine to take but I found it first and it became mine. I needed it. But I should have given it to you long before now.'

'So why didn't you?'

'There was never a right time. Now there is no more time, but it is up to you. I shall put it here for you. I have read it many times and it is up to you to decide if you wish to know what I know.'

'Do I want to know?'

'You won't know until after you have read it.'

Miles stared at the envelope as it rested against the bedside lamp. It was blank.

'But understand, Miles, I know the man I married. At least I can say that much.'

'He thinks I killed her.'

'I know.'

'And you?'

'I read the letter. My sister was a tragic accident.'

They both sat comfortably as Miles closed his eyes and Alice left her tea to become cold. She buttoned her coat and took her handbag from the bed. She looked at the old man in his chair, hesitated, and left without saying she would be back someday soon. She closed the door.

Miles sat. He breathed deep. He listened. He felt his feet on the floor. Time was passing.

The door opened again as the nurse entered to retrieve the mug. As she grabbed it, she assessed the remains and tutted.

'Waste, waste, waste,' she said. She noticed the envelope by the lamp and grabbed that too. 'You reading this now or should I put it away in your drawer? Would you like the television on instead, dear?' She looked down at the old man's feet and bent down with a groan to pick up his spectacles from the carpet. 'You'll need these,' she said, holding them out to him.

Miles looked at her in silence until she rested them on the arm of the chair, resting the letter against them. He ignored her, looking out.

'You can't just sit in silence all day, my dear, it's not healthy. Wouldn't you rather come downstairs? Everybody else is downstairs.' She clicked her fingers at his face, 'Anybody home?'

*

I can smell, even taste the salt of the air. I can hear the waves and I can feel my feet on the sands of the shore. The sun is bright and I do not blink as I stare into it. The distant haar across the water obscures the line of the horizon. The sky is blank. My attention is drawn to the gentle surf that comes towards me and each wave recedes back into the next, never quite reaching me. If I concentrate, I can remember a breeze. It is a warm breeze. I look to the north and I see the shore reach a cliff nearby. Above that cliff is a lighthouse. It peeks over the green of the land and it is as I choose to remember it. I turn my back to the sea and look to the dunes and I am happy that that is all I see. In the farther distance is jutting rock and I walk towards it. The lighthouse is now behind me, and I follow the shore. The sand retains my footprints and they follow me until I reach the rock that emerges from the sea. Over the rock, I jump down onto sand once again. I walk on by a concrete bunker that is nestled amongst the marram grass of a cliff that has obscured the remainder of the beach. I emerge from the shadow of the cliff and before me stretches a beach without footprints. Low dunes. Calm sea. I know how far the beach stretches without looking. My eyes are drawn to the boulder that stands alone at the water's edge and I look without surprise at the image of the rock and the image of her on that rock. The surf reaches the rock as I do and I find a way up onto it and sit by her. She turns to me without words and looks at me the way I had always wanted her to look at me. We sit together and the sun is warm on our faces as the tide comes in.

