Read Online Ripples on a Pond by Joy Dettman - Free Book Online Page A

appeared to have grown out of it. Nothing could ever move that house, or Aunty Leticia. She’d welcomed Bernard as a prodigal son returned, had hugged Margaret, kissed Morrie, and introduced him proudly to all and sundry. She, her house, her land, had given a seventeen year old stability, substance.
    A farm worker had given him his name. ‘You’d be the young Langdon then,’ he’d said. The young Langdon of Langdon Hall. That’s who he’d become at seventeen.
    The birth certificate issued after his adoption stated that he was James Morrison Hooper Grenville-Langdon, one hell of a mouthful. In England, he’d got rid of that mouthful, had dropped the lot – other than the Morrison, which, for some reason, he’d been unable to drop, and the Langdon. He’d filled in his own papers when he’d applied to universities: Morrison Langdon, Langdon Hall, Thames Ditton. That’s who he’d become, who he was.
    Spent four years at the university, gathering a variety of useless information and a new selection of names to take the place of those he’d left behind. Half a dozen had become mates. It was his mates who had taught him to drink and to pick up girls. It was his mates who had cut the Morrison down to Morrie, and before he’d done with university he’d become an Englishman, nephew of Leticia Langdon.
    *
    Bernard moaned and rolled to his side, pulling the blankets with him. Accustomed to a wider bed, he’d fall out if he rolled another inch. Morrie rose to straighten the blankets and tuck them beneath the mattress. No doubt Bernard would have slept more soundly in a darkened room, but tonight Morrie needed light. His thoughts were dark enough.
    He packed his papers away, closed the briefcase and wished he had a book. He glanced at the ubiquitous green Bible on the bedside table, left for lonely travellers. He wasn’t lonely enough yet to open it.
    He’d found a base in Cara. She’d always been there. He’d leave her for ten months at a time, and when he returned she’d be waiting for him. Maybe he’d been testing her, proving to himself that she’d be around forever.
    And maybe he was lonely enough to reach for that Bible, or desolate enough.
    He’d read bits of it as a kid, old Lorna towering over him. She’d been into the Bible in a big way. He’d copied passages from it on Sundays, practising his handwriting, and she was never satisfied with what he’d produced.
    â€˜Again, boy. Write it again!’
    He hadn’t liked that book.
    During Vern’s final year of life, he’d taken it up on Sundays, though not to read from it. He’d close his eyes, let the Bible fall open where it would, then place a finger on the page and allow it to slide down, blindly seeking God’s message for the week.
    Morrie did as his grandfather had done.
    Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
    Flipped that page and glanced again at Bernard, who had rolled to his back, a snoring, whistling little hump tucked in by his cage of blankets.
    Again Morrie allowed the Bible to fall open. This time his finger landed on sister and he read.
    Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! How much better is thy love than wine! And the smell of thine ointments than all spices! . . . A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.
    God’s message for the week blurred before his eyes. He massaged them with two fingers, then opened the bedside table where he found two sheets of hotel paper. No biro. Found one in the pocket of his jacket, and on a sheet of paper he copied the paragraph.
    â€˜How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse. How much better is thy love than wine,’ he said aloud, and wished he’d ordered a bottle of wine – something red,