The Book And The Brotherhood

later friends; never to Sinclair or to Duncan, to whom he had been so close after Sinclair died, never to Robin or Marcus, or Jenkin or Rose, or to any of'his friends did he breathe a word about him. Only once, in St Mark's Square in Venice, with Duncan long ago, when a pigeon alighted on his hand and he exclaimed with grief, did he come near to telling, and confessed to 'a most unhappy memory'. Oh – pretty – one. In conversation, if parrots were mentioned, he changed the subject; and he never again had any relation with any beast, no cat, no dog, no bird, entered his life. A re-enactment was impossible, and it would have been too painful a reminder. How frail these gentle creatures are who deign to share our lives, how dependent on us, how vulnerable to our ignorance, our neglect, our mistakes, and to the wordless mystery of their own mortal being.

He thought, I ought to have said something-about Grey to my father, brought the subject up somehow. Yet what could I have said, in what form of words and to what good effect? I couldn't just say, 'I forgive you', or `I have long ago forgiven you'. Would that be true anyway, and if a lie would it not be instantly seen as such? In any case this terminology would be too solemn, like an imputation of'guilt. It was not a burden to put upon a dying man, a prolonged discussion would have been unthinkable. Yet, when there was so little time left, was not that exactly the moment to say those things? Or were such ventures only tolerable in a formal context, best left to priests? Perhaps his father had ceased to feel guilty, had long ago dismissed the whole matter. That was unlikely. Gerard had, he thought, or imagined, at many moments through his life, understood the particular look of those gentle penitent eyes. On the other hand, it was also possible that, as he nursed the wound, to himself, to his son, over the years, his father might have felt resentment against Gerard, not only for his withdrawal, but for having somehow occasioned the whole business in the first place by his fanatical attachment to that wretched bird. As for the withdrawal, that must surely have become imperceptible by the time Gerard was at Oxford, the 'iciness' had been internalised. The 'forgiveness' was, had to be, something enacted over a long period, and perhaps had effectively been so enacted, since Gerard's affection for his father had been, and must have been seen to be, so wholehearted, in spite of the secret pain which no longer prompted any accusation. Was the fact that they had never spoken about it, that Gerard had never spoken, since it was for him to make the first move, really so important, so awful? Yes. Yet as the years went by it became harder to raise the subject without some sort of unpredictable shock, without the danger of making matters worse. It could not be casually touched upon or easily woven into ordinary reminiscence. At the end it was too late to make any gesture, as much too late yesterday, he thought, as it is today. And he thought, I'm sure Grey has outlived my father, parrots live longer than we do, he could outlive me too, I hope he will, I hope he is happy. How odd it still is, not knowing where he is, and how odd that when I have forgotten so much I have not forgotten this and can call up the same emotions? And that I feel just this now when my father has died. He stared out of the window at the tree of prayers, frail ephemeral supplications to remote and cruel gods. Turning back towards the long still figure on the bed, he felt tears come to his eyes at last.

Patricia Fairfax opened the door. 'Why are you here?' she asked. Then, seeing the question was ridiculous, said, 'Have you been here long? I was asleep.'

'Not long,' said Gerard, mopping his eyes with the back of his hand.

'Come downstairs. Why have you no shoes on? There are your shoes. Put them on. Have you looked at him?'

^'Yes.'

Patricia stared at the shrouded figure, then turned and hurried down the stairs. Gerard followed, closing the door. 'Would you like some coffee, something to eat?'

'Yes, please.'

'I suppose you've been up all night.'

'Yes.'

They went into the kitchen, Gerard sat at the scrubbed wooden table, Patricia turned on the electric stove. Gerard had felt, he still felt, irritated at the calm way she had taken over his kitchen. He had felt bound to invite Pat and Gideon lbr what was to have been a short interval after the lease of I heir flat was unexpectedly terminated, now they behaved as if they owned the place. He felt extremely tired. 'Pat, dear, don't worry about eggs or anything, just give me some bread.'

'Don't you want toast?'

^,Toast. Yes, no, it doesn't matter. Have you eaten anything?,

'I can't eat.'

Gerard felt ashamed that he could. 'Tell me what happened.'

'He was all right last night.'

'He was all right in the afternoon when I left him, he seemed lictier.'

'I settled him down and went to bed. Then about one 4 o'clock I heard him moaning and moving, making those little iwises, you know, you said like a restless bird – and I got up and went to him and he was awake, but – he wasn't making much sense -'

'Rambling a bit?'

'Yes, that happened before – but really, now – he was different-‘

‘Different – how – do you think he knew?'

'He was – he was – frightened.'

`Oh God -' Oh the pity of it, he thought, how terrible, how I pity him, oh the pity, oh the grief. 'Pat, I'm sorry I wasn't there.'

`You would have been if you hadn't regarded that dance as so absolutely important.'

`Was he in pain?'

`I don't think so. I'd given him the usual stuff. But he had such a – a terrible urgent look in his eyes, and he couldn't keep still, as if all his body were wrong and intolerable.'

`An urgent look. Did he say anything clear?'

^`He said several times, 'Help me.''

`Oh - dear – Did he ask for me?'

`No. He talked about Uncle Ben.' Benjamin Hernshaw had been Matthew Hernshaw's 'disreputable' younger brother, Violet's father, Tamar's grandfather.

^`He always loved Ben. Have you telephoned Violet?'

`No, of course not.'

`Why of course?'

`I wasn't going to ring her in the middle of the night, was I? She never liked Dad, she isn't interested, she knows there's nothing for her in the will.'

`How does she know?'

`I told her.'

`Was that necessary?'

`She asked me.'

`We must give her something.'

`Oh for God's sake don't start on that, we've got enough to worry about.'

`Dad didn't mention her because he assumed we'd look after her.'

`Just you try, she'd bite your hand off, she hates everybody!' `She did accept money from Dad, I know – we must tell her he talked about Ben. What did he say about him?'

`I don't know, he was mumbling – remember Ben, or remember Ben's something or other -'

`Well, there you are -'

`Look, Gerry, we must decide -'

`Pat, wait – Did you know he was going to – to die?'

'Only just before the end – then suddenly it was – so clear -.is if he'd explained it -'

`Ali – and you saw him go?'

`Yes. He was lying there and twisting and turning and talking about Ben. Then suddenly he sat up straight and looked at me – with that awful puzzled frightened look – and he looked all about the room – and he said – he said -'

`What?'

`He said slowly, and quite clearly, 'I'm – so – sorry.' Then he leaned back onto the pillow, not falling, but slowly, a§ if Inc were going to sleep again – he made a little tiny odd sound, like – like a – mew –