Richard died six weeks ago on the day after he told me the ending of his story. I was with him, holding his hand and Thomas wandered in and out all morning, bringing bits and pieces from the garden to try and make Richard smile. It worked once when Thomas brought in a couple of bits of greenish-blue eggshell that he’d found beneath the plum tree.
“That’s a bullfinch egg, son,” Richard whispered as Thomas held the shells up to show him. He gave one of his grins but then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
He died in the afternoon soon after Nurse had given him his injection. I didn’t stop her because I knew that he was ready. As she rolled up his pyjama sleeve he turned his face towards me and stared into my eyes. There were no words. We didn’t need any. I nodded because I knew what he was saying and smiled my goodbye. I think that my face was the last thing he saw before his eyes closed and he went to sleep. I hope that made him happy.
Afterwards, Donald Clewes came to the house to certify the death.
“They only gave him six months, at the hospital, when he was diagnosed,” he said when I took him into the kitchen for a cup of tea. “He managed fourteen. That was you. You kept him going.”
I shrugged. Maybe. I don’t know. It was more likely wanting to get to the end of his story that spurred him on.
“What now? Where will you go?”
That was when I cried. I felt as though my world had crashed down all around me and I no idea how to escape from the wreckage.
“Come on, Sharon,” said Donald and clumsily put his arm around my shoulder. “After all, you can’t say that you weren’t expecting it. I was.”
The idiot. If he thought that would make me feel better then he couldn’t have been more wrong. It only confirmed what a second-class person he was.
“Go away,” I said through my tears. “Leave me alone.”
It was Thomas who coped with me best. He understood that I was overcome with grief for he felt it too. He dropped his little carroty head onto my shoulder and sobbed. So we held each other and that was a comfort. After a bit he asked if he could go and tell Jason.
“He should know,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, looking so serious and grown up.
“Yes,” I said, calming myself for his sake. “And I’ll phone Andrew Jones.”
The following week, Andrew and I flew to Ireland with Richard’s body. When we arrived at the little white church in the corner of a small village, the minister was waiting for us with two or three of his parishioners. I don’t know why they came, maybe they went to every funeral, but in a way I was glad they were there. It made Richard’s burial less of a hurried, impersonal business than it might have been.
The grave containing Elizabeth and John had been opened and Richard was finally laid to rest beside the two people he loved more than anyone else in the world. Andrew gave my hand a squeeze as the minister intoned the words, ‘earth to earth, dust to dust,’ but I was fine. My crying was all done. Now I was happy that we had done what Richard had requested.
I read the stone above the grave, Elizabeth Nugent Wilde born July 30 1904, died March 10 1966. Devoted Mother of John Edward born March 30 1933 who departed this world September 23 1943. May they rest in everlasting peace.
Richard has arranged for his epigram on the stone. It will read, Richard Colenso Wilde born December 20 1905 and died April 29 2001. Loving Father of John Edward and faithful until death to Elizabeth
I like those words. They’re simple but they have meaning. For me, knowing the whole story, they are perfect.
“You loved him, didn’t you?” asked Andrew as we walked away from the cemetery down the quiet village road. In front of us were the iron railings and the fancy gates of Ballinbar House, Elizabeth’s home, which I have recently been told is now mine. It is grand in every sense of the word. No wonder Richard teased Elizabeth about it. I have no idea yet what I’ll do with it. But then all the consequences of Richard’s death have left me stunned and almost unable to take them in.
“Sharon,” Andrew’s voice broke into my thoughts again.
“Yes? What?”
“You loved him?”
“Yes.”
I did. Not like a father or a grandfather but I loved him like a lover. I could never tell anyone, they wouldn’t understand, but what I felt for that old man was closer to true love than I have ever felt for any man. Being with him was heaven. Oh, I know he was old and sick and I was aware of how frail he was as well as anyone else, but listening to his story and writing down all his adventures, I could see beyond the shell of a man he had become. I loved the person inside. The kind, faithful and passionate man that he was.
“Yes, I loved him,” I repeated to Andrew and took his arm as we strolled up the long drive towards the fine Georgian mansion ahead.
That last tape hasn’t been transcribed. I let Andrew listen to it and he sat with his hands steepled under his chin until the end.
“Poor Richard,” he said. “That explains a lot.”
“Should I write it down?”
He was quiet while he thought about it. “It’s up to you,” he said, finally. “If you transcribe it, then it could be open to the world and Richard’s reputation would be destroyed. But if you keep it to yourself, then you will have to live with the knowledge for the rest of your life. Like he did. Not the same, of course, but perhaps a heavy burden to bear, considering that he’s your benefactor.”
“What would you do?”
No long consideration this time. “I would get rid of it,” he said. “The man was a hero. He doesn’t deserve to be thought of as a murderer. Besides what good would it do to anyone? Sergeant Darlington had the right idea.”
That was over a month ago now and I still haven’t made up my mind.
Richard left me and Thomas so much. This house and the farm. The properties that are rented and the house and land in Ireland. According to Andrew, all that’s left of the original will is an amount to the Phoenix family and a considerable sum of money to his old regimental charity. Before, he had made a list of bequests to lots of charities both here and abroad. They have lost out and I feel guilty about it. Andrew says I shouldn’t.
I gave Andrew the duelling pistols. Maybe I should have saved them for Thomas, but I don’t think he will ever appreciate them. He’s a born farmer, my son. He’d see the pistols as nothing more than toys. Andrew was quite moved, I think, but he pretended to be casual. “Nice to have something from the old boy, but you shouldn’t have given it,” he said.
“I want to. I couldn’t have managed without you.”
He nodded then and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He has been a brick.
I have the jewellery too. It was in a box in the bank and we went one morning to collect it. The rings, some of which I think were Mother’s, are too small for me, but there are brooches and two diamond watches and of course, the blue and silver necklace. I’m wearing it now. It lies flat and heavy round my neck and I touch it and remember how Richard bought it from the gypsy woman. I’ll always wear it.
Jason has asked me to ‘name the day’ and Thomas keeps wondering when we’re going to move into Jason’s house. My son is spending more and more time over there and I don’t mind that. Jason has been so good for him. But I can’t, not yet. I had promised to marry him when I was free from looking after Richard and I am free now. The thing is that I am free, but different. I’m not sure what I want now.
Perhaps I’ll go away for a while. Get my head together. What I would really like is a sea trip. On a big white boat where I could have a cabin to myself and only talk to my fellow passengers if I felt like it. It would stop at Gibraltar, for perhaps, a day and then on through the Mediterranean. I’d make sure I was on deck to see the Suez Canal and watch men walking beside camels and not thinking that there is anything strange in what they’re doing.
And then we’ll sail out into the hot brown Arabian Sea and I’ll lean over the rails, letting the heavy spice-laden air waft over me. There’s a blue haze on the horizon and if I screw up my eyes I can just make out a line of land.
India.
We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Richard?