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Authors: Julia Rochester
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downstairs to
comfort myself with Matthew, but he was not in his study. I was just about to leave the
room, when it occurred to me to consult the map. I wondered, fearfully, what it would
have to say about all this. I forced my gaze to Brock Tor and braced myself to see a
falling figure, but there was none. Matthew could hardly be expected to paint his own
son’s death, but the omission upset me. I wondered if he had put my father in the
water, and reached for the magnifying-glass on the desk. But I lost courage, and
didn’t seek him there. I replaced the magnifying-glass and left the room.
Instead I searched the house for a box with
a key, and emptied it of its contents and took it to Corwin and Matthew and Mum and
asked each to put in something associated with my father. ‘So, you have
John’s sentimental streak, after all!’ said Mum, but sadly enough for me to
forgive her the aspersion. None of us was to look in the box – simply slip in the
object, so that we would not know what had gone into it. It had to be a secret between
each of us and my father’s memory. It still is a secret. Then I took the box to
the kitchen garden and blindly inserted a trowelful of soil before locking it.
On a rising tide I walked to Brock Tor and
pushed through the gorse patch to stand above the chine. Fed by all that rainfall, the
stream now shot out of the cliff. To the north-east there was a black sheet of rain, but
where I stood the sun shone and there was a light onshore wind. I forced myself close
enough to the edge to be able to hurl the box over the waterfall and into the cove
below. It floated there for a while, slowly nudged by the tidetowards
a fissure between two up-facing blades of granite at the base of the cliff. What if it
didn’t sink? Or break up? What if it washed up on the beach? That was not what I
wanted at all. A wave came over and ground it into the rock. It bobbed back up, a dark
smudge on dark water, as though in defiance – of me, so it seemed. But then another wave
hit hard and, withdrawing, dragged the box along a jagged ridge, where it twisted and
bounced violently in the white water. The next wave slammed it under the cliff, out of
view. The rain had reached me now, but I stood and waited for a long while to see if the
box would reappear. It didn’t.
At home Corwin asked, ‘Well, did it
work?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not
really.’
‘Well, there you go,’ he said.
‘Don’t say I didn’t tell you.’
But perhaps, after all, the box performed
some act of release, because that evening Matthew called a family summit and we set a
date for a memorial service. The conventions soothed us, and we were kinder to each
other. We agreed to ask Mark Luscombe to deliver the eulogy, mainly because, as local GP
and chairman of the Thornton Players, he could be trusted to be heard in the back seats.
We booked caterers, and informed people of the date, and chatted with the vicar, and
chose passages from the Bible that sounded secular enough for our tastes, and generally
behaved as if there were a body to bury or burn and take our leave of.
We dressed in black. I put on each item
carefully – black tights, black blouse, black velvet skirt, black shoes. It was fitting
and calming, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I saw someone in mourning and
felt relief. At the church porch we greeted people in the honeyed autumn sun. The air
smelt sweet, of leaves on the ground.
Inside the church, we sat in the front pew.
‘Lost at sea,’ whispered the church walls. ‘Lost at sea.’ The
church was full. I hadnever noticed that any of these people knew my
father. They cried at the moving bits. Mark talked about my father’s love of music
and nature, his gentle smile. Then he said, ‘John always made me think of Sir
Galahad. He was uncorrupted by the vices of our age. He was chivalrous. He was pure of
heart. And he was
comfort myself with Matthew, but he was not in his study. I was just about to leave the
room, when it occurred to me to consult the map. I wondered, fearfully, what it would
have to say about all this. I forced my gaze to Brock Tor and braced myself to see a
falling figure, but there was none. Matthew could hardly be expected to paint his own
son’s death, but the omission upset me. I wondered if he had put my father in the
water, and reached for the magnifying-glass on the desk. But I lost courage, and
didn’t seek him there. I replaced the magnifying-glass and left the room.
Instead I searched the house for a box with
a key, and emptied it of its contents and took it to Corwin and Matthew and Mum and
asked each to put in something associated with my father. ‘So, you have
John’s sentimental streak, after all!’ said Mum, but sadly enough for me to
forgive her the aspersion. None of us was to look in the box – simply slip in the
object, so that we would not know what had gone into it. It had to be a secret between
each of us and my father’s memory. It still is a secret. Then I took the box to
the kitchen garden and blindly inserted a trowelful of soil before locking it.
On a rising tide I walked to Brock Tor and
pushed through the gorse patch to stand above the chine. Fed by all that rainfall, the
stream now shot out of the cliff. To the north-east there was a black sheet of rain, but
where I stood the sun shone and there was a light onshore wind. I forced myself close
enough to the edge to be able to hurl the box over the waterfall and into the cove
below. It floated there for a while, slowly nudged by the tidetowards
a fissure between two up-facing blades of granite at the base of the cliff. What if it
didn’t sink? Or break up? What if it washed up on the beach? That was not what I
wanted at all. A wave came over and ground it into the rock. It bobbed back up, a dark
smudge on dark water, as though in defiance – of me, so it seemed. But then another wave
hit hard and, withdrawing, dragged the box along a jagged ridge, where it twisted and
bounced violently in the white water. The next wave slammed it under the cliff, out of
view. The rain had reached me now, but I stood and waited for a long while to see if the
box would reappear. It didn’t.
At home Corwin asked, ‘Well, did it
work?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not
really.’
‘Well, there you go,’ he said.
‘Don’t say I didn’t tell you.’
But perhaps, after all, the box performed
some act of release, because that evening Matthew called a family summit and we set a
date for a memorial service. The conventions soothed us, and we were kinder to each
other. We agreed to ask Mark Luscombe to deliver the eulogy, mainly because, as local GP
and chairman of the Thornton Players, he could be trusted to be heard in the back seats.
We booked caterers, and informed people of the date, and chatted with the vicar, and
chose passages from the Bible that sounded secular enough for our tastes, and generally
behaved as if there were a body to bury or burn and take our leave of.
We dressed in black. I put on each item
carefully – black tights, black blouse, black velvet skirt, black shoes. It was fitting
and calming, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I saw someone in mourning and
felt relief. At the church porch we greeted people in the honeyed autumn sun. The air
smelt sweet, of leaves on the ground.
Inside the church, we sat in the front pew.
‘Lost at sea,’ whispered the church walls. ‘Lost at sea.’ The
church was full. I hadnever noticed that any of these people knew my
father. They cried at the moving bits. Mark talked about my father’s love of music
and nature, his gentle smile. Then he said, ‘John always made me think of Sir
Galahad. He was uncorrupted by the vices of our age. He was chivalrous. He was pure of
heart. And he was
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