WE FINISHED BUILDING THE CAIRN WITHOUT MUCH BEING SAID, except of a practical sort—which stones to use; how to construct the cairn so that it was stable and solid—the photo of his father buried at its heart.

Karl was concentrated, as if all the emotions of his declaration were absorbed into the stones and his attention to our work.

By the time we were done the cairn looked sufficiently monumental for anyone who came across it to see it was more than merely a pile of stones. About a metre square at the base, it stood a metre and a half high, tapering to a flat top about thirty centimetres square, which we capped with a slab of slate just the right size that we’d found in the river.

We stood for a moment or two, side by side, looking at it.

I felt something should be said to mark the occasion, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate.

Then we washed our hands and faces in the river, collected our belongings, and strolled in single file, Karl leading the way, up to the car. We retrieved Karl’s bike from the hedge where he’d hidden it and stowed it in the back of the Rover. And then I phoned Mrs. Williamson to let her know we were on our way.

By now I was feeling the pinch. My old man’s energy wasn’t up to such unrelenting activity and emotional ups and downs. And the long drive, without a stop, and the shifting of heavy stones had set off the sciatica. The last thing I felt like doing was drive the car back home. I’d supposed Karl would do this, but he climbed into the passenger seat without a word, and by the time I’d phoned his mother and eased into the driver’s seat, he was fast asleep, out like a light and dead to the world.

I had to stop three times to walk about, rest my back, and consult the hedgerows. Karl never woke, never moved during the entire journey.

When we got back, Mrs. Williamson, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, did both simultaneously. The prodigal son responded as best he could, but all he wanted was to go to bed. His mother urged food on him, a bath, a shower, a litany of questions about how he was and what he wanted (“Just bed, Mum, just bed”), and telling him how good I’d been and wasn’t I clever to know where to find him.

All to no avail. Karl was in bed, unwashed, unfed and unconscious fifteen minutes after we arrived.

As for me, I wanted to be back in my own home and to attend to myself no less than Karl wanted his bed. But out of fellow feeling accepted Mrs. Williamson’s offer of a meal while I gave her a brief report on what had happened, including the building of the cairn, but omitting Karl’s declaration, which I knew would raise many questions to which I neither knew the answers nor had the stamina to discuss. I left her to nurse her relieved delight on her own as soon as I could, promising to phone later.

I felt a touch guilty, leaving her like that, but there are times when guilt is no rival to the need to save yourself.

When I phoned late that evening, Mrs. Williamson reported that Karl had slept until about six, then got up, showered, ate a meal of fried eggs and bacon, before going back to bed, where he still was, fast asleep. He’d said very little, except that he “felt a bit better” but was “knackered.”

We agreed his fatigue was natural and understandable and was perhaps a good sign that he was recovering.

Mrs. Williamson, however, was as lively as a bumblebee, still buzzing with relief, gratitude and maternal desire to coddle her only child.

I promised I’d phone again next morning, which I did, but not till midday. I, too, was knackered. To adapt the famous lines from the Remembrance Day poem, age does weary them, and the years do condemn those who live to be old. There is no escaping the deracination of time. I felt done in by the previous day’s excursions. But the pain of revived sciatica prevented solid sleep. My joints ached, my limbs felt filleted of their bones, and I was urinating even more often than usual and with some pain. No position, standing, sitting or lying down, was comfortable for long. I’d been through this before, much worse, and knew that patience was the only cure for my body and listening to music the only salve for my soul. Exhaustion that would have needed no more than a good night’s sleep for recovery only a few years ago, now required three or four.

This time when I phoned, Mrs. Williamson sounded as if she had tumbled down from yesterday’s high and fallen into a slump. Karl, however, was up and in better shape than for some weeks. He was in the garden “pottering about,” his mother said. Of course, he hadn’t gone to work, too soon for that, if indeed he was on the mend, which it was also too soon to know. Mrs. Williamson was staying home from her job, because she was afraid to leave Karl alone “in case he relapsed.” She was worried about being off work so much.

Had I felt up to it, I’d have offered to Karl-sit. But my resources of compassion were as weak as the rest of me. I said I’d help out tomorrow, which seemed to cheer her up.

I phoned early next morning, intending to be at Karl’s in time for Mrs. Williamson to go to work as usual. But she said Karl wanted to be on his own, had persuaded her that he would be OK, wouldn’t “do anything silly,” and needed her to trust he’d “get himself back onto his feet.” He had agreed that she could phone him whenever she wanted to. I asked her to tell Karl he could phone or come and see me at any time.

That day passed without a word from Karl. Mrs. Williamson phoned during her lunch break to tell me that Karl was pottering about in the garden, and again when she got home that afternoon, to tell me he was making another fly for his fishing.

Next day, the same calls, and the day after. The fourth day, Mrs. Williamson reported that Karl had cleared his room out and—for the next three days—was repainting it, the walls white, the woodwork the shade of blue, Karl had told his mother, of the song thrush’s eggs.

Each day she sounded more cheerful and confident. But “we’re not out of the wood yet,” she added with a defensive caution against disappointment that I’d come to recognise was part of her nature.

And so as the days went by, I called less and less frequently, and so did Mrs. Williamson. It became clear that Karl was much better and improving in spirits all the time. And though still not going to work, he was keeping himself busy at home and had started fishing again in the local river.

During that time my doctor arranged for me to see a consultant, who advised I might need a prostate operation in the next few months if the medication I was taking didn’t show better results soon. Luckily, the condition was still in the early stages and, he suggested, could be dealt with without too much difficulty, the prognosis being good for a complete recovery.

This began to occupy me—by which I mean worry me—more than my concern for Karl. Of course, I didn’t mention it to Mrs. Williamson, though there were moments when I had to resist a temptation to spill the beans. One of the problems of living on your own at my age, after more than forty years of married life, is having no one at home to talk to about your worries, no one who can shore up your confidence and cheer you up. Friends, however good and close, are not the same support as a loving partner, who knows you inside out.

A couple of weeks later Fiorella’s name popped up in my message box.

Hi. I heard Karl is ill. Is he OK?

I asked who had told her.

His boss. He’s doing some work in our house. What’s wrong with Karl? Is it serious? His boss says it is.

It was. But he’s getting better.

What was it?

It’s not right for me to tell you.

That means it must be mental or emotional, because if he’d broken a leg or something physical was wrong, I think you’d tell me.

No comment.

Was it because of what happened between us?

No comment.

I bet it was. I wish you’d tell me because if it is I feel I’m to blame. Partly anyway.

I wouldn’t say you’re to blame.

So it is, isn’t it? I’d like to see him.

I thought you’d broken up with him for good.

I did, but I can’t forget him, can’t get him out of my mind. Maybe what happened wasn’t so bad. It frightened me and I panicked. I’ve thought a lot about it. I think I can see why he behaved like he did. He was all mixed up about his dad and me and not being able to write like I wanted him to. What do you think?

I don’t know.

I think he needs me. I could help him get better. And I want to see him again. I’ll try to.

Up to you, of course. But it wouldn’t be a good idea just to turn up at his house unexpected.

Give me some credit.

Best of luck.