Death be Not Proud

by C F Dunn

  “I came back to England to sort myself out; that was the idea anyway, not that I could have been described as thinking straight at the time – I was quite a mess.” Matthew shifted uncomfortably. “And that’s not all down to you; there were other factors involved, if you remember – such as Staahl, and the bear. Anyway, when talking to a friend of the family, Mike Taylor…”

  “The ‘basket case’ man?”

  “Do you always listen in on other people’s conversations?”

  “It’s a bit hard not to – especially when it’s relevant.”

  “It turns out that he knows you – had spoken to you – sometime in the late seventies, I think. You helped him out with a tricky heart operation via a video link – a procedure which you pioneered, apparently. He was very complimentary and, at that point, he decided that anyone who had been treated by the wonderful Doctor Lynes couldn’t possibly be off her rocker.”

  I looked up to see what effect this information had on him, to find him looking doubtful.

  “What?”

  “Well, apart from the fact that your parents regarded it as necessary to have somebody assess you, which I find disturbing enough…”

  “He’s a cardiac surgeon, not a psychiatrist, Matthew.”

  “There is also the question that he recognized my name.”

  “So…?”

  “So, it could lead to my exposure and that of my family.”

  “No, I don’t think so – he just assumed that you are quite a lot older – which, of course, is correct. There was no sign of him being suspicious or anything, I made quite sure of that. You did get my email, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I never doubted I can trust you – even with something like this.”

  I burrowed closer, smiling. “And then I saw the newspaper cutting from when you were in that athletics team. The chances of anyone connecting you to a photograph taken nearly a century ago are so remote as to be insignificant. It was all blurry anyway, and the photograph didn’t do you justice.

  “But you made the connection, Emma.”

  “Yes, but I looked for one.”

  “Nonetheless, it was there to be found.” He fell into silence, the worry creasing his face once more. I waited for him to work through his thoughts, playing with the signet ring on his little finger. Now that I knew what it was, I felt surprise that I hadn’t made the connection sooner between the worn crest and the inked image my grandfather had drawn so carefully. He finally drew a deep breath.

  “Right… so what did you do then?”

  “Then I went all guns blazing into tracing you. And you have that hair…”

  He grimaced. “The bane of my life.”

  I looked at the glorious colour of his hair and waved a long strand of my own at him. “I hardly think so – I bet you were never called ‘Ginger Pixie’ when you were little.” I pulled a face at the thought of the long list of names I had been called over the years. He took the strand from my hand and twisted it around his fingers, watching it glint in the light of the bedside lamp.

  “I cannot think of anything more beautiful,” he pondered. I made to reply with some tart rejoinder about flattery, but something in the way he contemplated the lock of hair made me stop. He saw me watching him.

  “So, you noticed that my colouring is similar…”

  “Exactly the same.”

  “Exactly the same then, as your grandfather, who came from this region with this specific colour, correct?”

  “So you do remember that conversation?”

  “I remember every word of every conversation we have ever had, Emma, but isn’t hair colour – specific or not – far too tenuous a link to jump to any conclusion?”

  “Yes it is,” I said, “but I had to start somewhere, and I could only do that with what I knew or what I suspected.”

  “And that led you to Martinsthorpe,” he said slowly.

  “Martinsthorpe via the parish records, yes; and the church – or what remains of it. And the stories.”

  “What stories?”

  “About you and your family; about your uncle.”

  Matthew paled; I put my hand to his face and stroked his cheek softly.

  “It isn’t so very long ago really, is it?”

  He closed his eyes at the memory. “No, there are some things I cannot forget.”

  Faintly through the walls of the old house, time struck inevitable hours from the long-case clock in the hall. He opened his eyes. “You must be tired.”

  “I am, but sleep can wait. Let me finish telling you first.” I paused, considering whether to tell him about the defaced monument, then decided it didn’t need to be said. Having your name removed from a book might be one thing, but to have your image smashed beyond recognition amounted to a violation – a declaration that you no longer belonged – so I skipped that bit. “I went to Old Manor Farm – the church of St Martin’s is now part of it; it’s where the Seatons lived.”

  Matthew nodded slowly as he recognized the name.

  “It wasn’t known as that then, but I remember it well enough; we had relatives there.”

  “You still do.”

  He gave a gruff laugh.

  “So, by the time I had been there, heard the stories and seen the window, I just about pieced together a cohesive picture. All I wanted in order for it to be conclusive, was a primary piece of documented evidence – a first-hand account.”

  Matthew looked at me swiftly. “And you found it? This journal you mentioned to your grandmother?”

  “Yup, I not only found it; I’ve been in possession of it for the last six weeks or so. Not only that, but it was the precise document that I went to Maine to find in the first place, and that my grandfather had been preoccupied with all his life. Bizarre, isn’t it!”

  “Certainly serendipitous. So you are saying that this journal – this piece of evidence – was at the college? But that you have it now?”

  I squirmed guiltily.

  “Ah, well, yes… but there is a reason for that. I… er, borrowed it. I will take it back; I was going to.”

  I didn’t know where to look; doing something wrong might be one thing and something I would deal with between myself and my conscience, but to have the person I loved know that, to all intents and purposes, I was a thief, was quite another.

  “I take it from your reaction that the college doesn’t know you have it?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Good. And you have it with you?”

  “Ye-es, it’s over there,” I indicated my desk and he rose from my bed. “But Matthew, wait.” I crawled across my bed and went to my desk and found the journal in its leather bag. He put out his hand expectantly, but I held it against me, reluctant to let it go. Consternation crossed his face.

  “Emma, may I see it?”

  I looked at his face, which was frowning now, but more beloved to me than ever, and then at the journal, which had led me to him. Slowly, hesitantly, I held it out to him with both hands as if offering some great treasure – a sacred part of me. He took it without looking, his expression quizzical, before glancing down and removing the book from its bag. Turning it over, he swiftly unwrapped the leather lace that bound it.

  “It’s the diary kept by Nathaniel Richardson. Please, Matthew… don’t be upset.”

  He looked at me briefly, already four centuries away. He took it over to Grandpa’s chair and opened the first page.

  For the time being I became redundant; I had served my purpose and brought the past and present together. But not only his past, but mine, and that of my grandfather before me. As I watched Matthew read, fully focused and intent on the task, I reflected on for whom I felt most scared: him – as he read the account of his betrayal and near death, of his rejection by his community, of his father’s heartbreak – or me. I had found the journal and it no longer held any mystery for me, no allure. Now my raison d’être lay in the man sitting before me and, in transferring all my hopes to him, I wondere
d not only where he might lead, but whether I would want to go there.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Exit

  My first thought on waking was: He’s gone. The campaign chair sat empty and the thin light of early morning drifted through the window, across the floor, and lay on the barren bed beside me. My hand was partway in the arm of my dressing-gown when the door to my room opened.

  “Good morning,” he said, walking silently towards me. I blinked to clear my sleep-ridden eyes, expecting him to have vanished when they opened.

  “You’re… here!” I managed to stutter.

  He looked mildly surprised, and stopped short. “Yes, of course; where else would I be?”

  Reaching out, I touched his hand and then curled my arms around his waist, reassured to find him real.

  “Matthew, where is the journal; did you read it?” His expression clouded briefly. “I should never have let you see it.”

  In response, he touched my hair with an ephemeral lightness, and undid my arms.

  “You must pack; we’ll need to get to the airfield by ten; do you think you can do that?” I glanced at the clock and nodded. “Do you need help?” I shook my head. “All right, then,” he said expectantly, and I climbed off my bed and went to shower, noting the impatience – no, excitement – in his voice, and how his eyes danced.

  Mum fussed me into my quilted coat, making a stoic effort to be pleased for me. “Darling, take care of yourself; we’ll be thinking of you at Christmas. Phone if you can and let us know how you’re getting on, won’t you? Oh, and phone when you get there so we know that you’ve arrived safely.”

  I kissed her soft cheek. “I will Mum, I’ll be fine, and they don’t hand out pilot’s licences ad hoc, so don’t worry. I’m more concerned that you look after yourself and… and spend lots of time with Nanna, won’t you – for me? To make up for me not being here? And Beth – make sure she sees her too.”

  Mum looked mystified. “Of course we will, darling, but you’ll see her when you come home. You will be home for Easter, won’t you?”

  That note of anxiety again, the one which had become more evident as she felt me slipping away from her.

  “I don’t know at this stage; I’m taking it one day at a time.” I glanced at Matthew, but he had his back to us, looking out of the sash window by the front door. She gave a quick nod – her face still drawn tight – but she managed a smile, and we rubbed noses in our time-honoured fashion and she laughed. I took one last look around before I left for I didn’t know how long.

  Half an hour later Dad and I stood on the airfield waiting for Matthew to call me from the sleek aircraft that stood dormant on the airstrip. A generator had been wheeled away and a light mist that had risen in the night surrounded it, replacing the snow. Matthew vaulted into the plane from the ground without bothering to use the steps, his lithe body springing without hesitation. No one else was around to see him, and my father was still engrossed in working out how to use his new mobile phone, pushing random buttons long-sightedly.

  “Use your glasses, Dad; it will make it a lot easier.”

  He stabbed at the cursor. “Give me a moment and I’ll get used to the blessed thing. You could just call me on the landline, Emma; I really don’t need a mobile, you know.”

  “I want you to be able to contact me at any time, just in case.”

  Defeated, he removed his gold-rimmed specs from the inside pocket of his thick tweed overcoat, perching them on the end of his nose.

  “In case of what, Emma?”

  “Make sure Mum spends time with Nanna; it’s important.”

  He regarded me over his glasses, his heavy, straight eyebrows that always made him look as if he were scowling, slightly raised in a question.

  “Do you know something I don’t, Em?”

  I looked at him directly. “I think that she needs to, Dad; Matthew…”

  His eyebrows twitched higher. “Ah, is this a professional opinion?”

  “Matthew says she hasn’t much time left. She’s quite comfortable and happy, but he thinks she has only a matter of a few months, and Mum…”

  He patted my arm. “Yes, all right – I understand what you’re saying. I take it you haven’t told your mother, have you? No, of course not, she would have said.”

  “Nanna seems to know somehow and she doesn’t want me to stay until… you know. I’m not trying to avoid being here.”

  I shuffled, pushing the toe of my shoe into the thawing turf, letting the moisture darken the leather to chestnut before drawing it out.

  “I didn’t think you were. Will you come back for the funeral, do you think?” For once no layer of presumption of duty lay behind his question.

  “I don’t know; I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Let’s wait and see what happens first. And, Emma…”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  He placed his hands on my arms, gripping me lightly above my elbows as if he wanted to ensure I understood what he wanted to say.

  “I hope all goes well with you – with you both. I’m just at the end of the phone if you need me and, for what’s it’s worth…” he paused, framing his thoughts carefully before continuing, “… you were right about me letting you go, about not trying to protect you – smother you, I think you said. I hope Matthew looks after you. He’s not like Guy, is he? I can see that; but I’m still your father, so if you need me…”

  His voice became gruff and he cleared his throat heavily, his embrace more than his customary brief affair, holding tangible affection, a warmth I wasn’t used to, and I was able to return his hug with more genuine fondness than I had shown for a long time.

  Perched by a window as the door of the aircraft shut conclusively, I watched the ghosting mist draw between us as Dad looked shrunken and forlorn standing by himself at the edge of the airfield. He raised a hand, briefly, before being lost to view altogether. Matthew crouched beside me and looked earnestly in my face.

  “Do you want to stay?”

  I shook my head vehemently. “No – no, it’s not that; it’s just that it’s the first time that I can ever remember being sorry to see him go.” I gulped and gave a watery smile. “I didn’t think it would ever happen.”

  A straggly end of mist-damp hair clung to my face, and he tucked it gently behind my ear.

  “Miracles do happen,” he said softly.

  I looked at the quirky upturned corners of his mouth and the love reflected in the intensity of his eyes as he smiled at me. I remembered what we had both been through and what we had overcome, and I smiled back.

  “Yes,” I said, reaching out and touching the face that had turned my world upside down. “I believe they do.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Solo

  “It looks very complicated.”

  The banks of controls were intimidating – the various lights, dials and switches meant absolutely nothing to me.

  Matthew leaned over and checked that the straps holding me into the seat were secure.

  “Like anything, you get used to them; you’re my flight crew today, by the way.”

  I looked at him askance. “You do want us to get back to Maine in one piece, don’t you? Or is this a suicide mission?” Grinning, he lowered himself into his own seat, but didn’t rise to my challenge. “Anyway, if you need a second pair of hands, how did you fly here by yourself?”

  He flicked a couple of switches and the whine of the engine coming to life filled the cockpit. I felt a familiar flutter of anticipation as I readied myself for the take-off, just as I did the last time I had flown to America – before I met him, before I knew what I did now and my whole world changed.

  “Strictly, a jet like this should be crewed by at least two, but I can fly it by myself if I have to in the event of an emergency; it’s one of the reasons I bought it. However,” he went on before I could say anything, “the FAA would have me grounded and on charges if they caught me, so today – for the sake of appea
rances – you are my co-pilot.”

  Somehow I didn’t think anyone would mistake me for a pilot; I knew as much about aircraft as my father did about history.

  Matthew ran what I supposed must be pre-flight checks. He called the control tower for clearance to taxi to the runway, and the plane began to move slowly past the other aircraft slumbering around the apron of the airfield. He seemed completely at ease with the controls.

  “How long have you been flying? You didn’t tell Dad yesterday, I noticed, and don’t say ‘Quite a while’, because that won’t wash.”

  His eyebrows lifted in a show of surprise. “I wouldn’t dream of it, although it has been a long time in aviation terms. Hang on, I need clearance for take-off.”

  He spoke into the headset and a distant voice answered him. The engines changed note, rising in pitch as the plane picked up speed.

  “I started flying before the war – the First World War, that would be. I liked the speed and the freedom of it. I found it exhilarating – liberating – after all those years spent anchored to the ground. It was also a practical service I could offer at the outset – until they needed more doctors, that is.”

  The ground gave way beneath us, the buildings and aircraft becoming spectral shapes under the shrouding mist. He gave a low chuckle. “You can let go now.”

  I had been unconsciously gripping the sides of the leather seat, my fingers almost as white as the cream upholstery, as the plane soared into the sky. Mist blanketed the windshield in swathes of droplets. I could only just make out denser shapes on the ground that must have been the trees edging the fields we passed on the way to the airfield.

  “How can you see?” I squeaked.

  “That’s what these instruments are for,” he indicated in front of him. “We’ll be above this in a minute; it’s only low cloud.”

  Almost as he spoke, the mist thinned, brightened and then broke as we climbed into untroubled skies above the now obscured Lincolnshire landscape. The plane rose smoothly in a shallow turn, taking flight from the glare of the pursuing sun.