“I don’t want to forget about it!” I shouted, tearing the envelope in half and throwing it on the floor. Sheila took a step back as my flash of temper disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared in the first place. “I am sorry.” I said. “It would be like I was trying to extinguish my memory of them. As if I was actively involved in getting rid of them somehow.”
“That’s ridiculous.” she said, and I was surprised now to see that Sheila was angry too. “Do you really think Sarah would want you to spend the rest of your life holding her up to the light, revering her? Your daughter too? There are those of us who are still here that care for you. Surely that should be enough!”
“Who?” I shouted back and I saw her blush as the penny dropped.
“Well me for a start.” she said, almost shyly. “Do you really think I come around here every day I can, just to do your books?”
“I…” I managed to say but nothing more.
“Very well.” she said, “It is time you got yourself together and stop talking to yourself.”
I blushed at this. I thought she had not noticed.
“I try not to.” I said, lying.
“Well then.” she said, and left the room. Shortly after I heard the front door slam and looking out of the window I saw her stamping up the street, buttoning her coat against the cold wind as she did so. I thought about following her for a second or two but did not do so. I knew it would do no good. Best to let her calm down by herself. Just like me.
Shortly after I picked up Sarah’s laptop and logged back onto her Facebook account, looking at all the little unimportant inanities laid bare for all to see. Was it just me or was the entire world going crazy? Who wants to know all of this stuff? Who reads it? I thought about it for a while. Data is just the new currency and these companies - Google, Facebook - and they are just the main exponents - do not want to know what you look at, what you read, what you do. They want to know all of it. Everything. They want to know that because it is a commodity that they can sell. Information is the powerhouse that drives the whole damned thing and my dead wife's pictures are there for everyone to see and for all to process and digest and ultimately forget. Our footsteps are light, but they remain and will never be erased for there is nobody but ourselves to erase them, and I did not want to do so, because if I did then it was just another nail in their coffins that is hammered in by me, for me to make my life easier.
“But we are gone.” said Sarah, and I felt my grip on the laptop loosening.
“You will always be my daddy.” said Amber. “But you will only ever be you again if you let us go.”
“How can I be anyone other than me?” I half sobbed, half laughed. It didn’t make any sense!
“The daddy who used to smile.” said Amber. “The one who made up funny names for things and places and made me laugh. He is hiding now and I think it time you got him back.”
“You are not forgetting you know.” said Sarah. “You will always remember us. Don’t linger on us too long. You may never be able to let us go then.”
Then finally the laptop fell to the floor with a clatter and i sat shaking until finally the tears began to fall and the day slowly wore on around me, though I was unaware of it doing so, the pain and the doubt finally took hold; was released almost and I let it take me.
***
Later I stood on the high street. I had the sudden urge to visit the site where the accident had happened, though I had in the past rarely done so. I just could not bear it. There were a tired and browning bunch of flowers taped to a railing nearby and I glanced at it, the card on them too sodden by the rain that surely had fallen upon it to make out the message. The words were gone.
So I stood and looked across the road, the signs of any damage of the accident erased now; tidied up, the blood washed away. Here was the side of the street where they were walking when the bus had careered out of control across the road and crushed them. There is the road the bus was coming along, the driver no doubt already in trouble but still holding on somehow, trying to remember how to brake before the darkness took him.
Here I was. I waited for Sarah or Amber to say something but they were strangely silent. It was a cold night and by now the traffic was lessening, few people about, the street lights coming on. I felt bad about Sheila. I would apologise to her in the morning. She was a nice girl. Maybe she was something more. I really do not know. I thought of her a little longer. Perhaps time will tell.
Still, the voices were silent. I must say here and now, for clarification if nothing else, that I never visualised my dead wife or daughter. It was just me having conversations in my head. Yet sometimes the responses I had created in my mind startled me a little. Sometimes they were just a little bit too real, somehow.
Tonight however as I looked across the road in the gloom stood two figures. A mother and her child; my wife and daughter, and as I watched they both waved and to my dying day I swear my sweet daughter blew me a kiss.
“Goodbye.” I said aloud and in my head I heard them both one last time.
“Goodbye.” they both said in unison and then they slowly and ever so finally faded away.
Reaching inside my coat I pulled out the carefully sellotaped letter to Google, and strode over to the post box where I put the envelope into the slot and finally and slowly, I let it go.
The Bird in the Hat
To Abigail Rothering, four-year-old daughter of Captain Phillip Rothering and Mrs. Catherine Rothering (nee’ Catterick), the amazing thing about the bird that came to visit her in her nursery every morning before breakfast was not the fact that it could talk (and talk very well indeed, she thought), but that on every visit the bird wore proudly upon its head an obviously well cared for and exceedingly polished top hat. That a bird wore a hat all was of course a wonder, but Abigail had never seen a top hat before and so it had made her giggle at first, so out of place was the bird’s headwear, but the bird had merely looked at her with a beady eyed stare and chirruped loudly in a desultory fashion as if by making this noise it was showing a sign of dissatisfaction and disdain. Nevertheless, after a few visits from her new avine friend she began to look forward to the bird’s visits and even opened the window before it was due to arrive, whether it was warm or not, so that the bird could, as usual, hop through the open window and perch itself on her window ledge so that they could both see each other clearly when they were talking.
“A cold day today.” said the bird to Abigail in its usual high, reedy voice, the hat on its head not moving at all as it hopped along the inside of the window ledge and began to peck at the small piece of bread that she had placed there.
Abigail thought that although the window was open a little her room was not very cold really but then she was still in bed, snug and warm underneath the blankets. She tried to remember if it had been cold when she had jumped out of bed to open the window but she had been so quick to get back under the blankets she could not remember. She had been sleepy too and that had not helped her to notice. Nevertheless, she felt the need to join in the conversation in case the bird came to think of her as boring and stopped visiting, and so she opened her mouth and said the first thing that came into her head.
“Mister Swains said that it will snow before Christmas.” she said. The bird stopped eating the bread and cocked its head to one side as if it was thinking.
“Nonsense.” it said finally and pecked at the breadcrumbs a little more before stopping again. “The hawthorn berries are hardly red at all. Snow is a while away yet.”
“How long?” asked Abigail, wiggling her toes under her blankets.
“Well now.” said the bird and hopped to the front of the window ledge as if warming to the subject. “Birds are not very good at measuring things. Not really. We do know how many berries will make us full and that one cat is enough to make us fly away, but beyond that we don’t really go in for counting things. Much too ponderous if you ask me.
“So all you have is today and no yesterday or
tomorrow?” asked Abigail.
“Well we know that much. But in bird speech it is the same thing really.” Abigail thought about this for a while and then shook her head.
“Your word for yesterday and tomorrow are the same?” she asked, giggling slightly.
“Of course.” said the bird and it raised its head slightly and began to preen itself.
“What word is it then?” she asked.
“Crooooook!” said the bird and Abigail nodded as if she was trying her very best to remember it just in case it ever came in useful.
“But you have no word for month or week?” she said, and the bird shook its head.
“Birds are not very good at naming things at all, Abigail. We just are as we are. We are not here to count or to make a list of everything. We just get on with being birds really.”
“Being a bird.” said Abigail and the bird nodded. “I wish I was a bird sometimes.” she finished sadly.
“Well it is not all it is cut out to be really.” said the bird, clicking its beak in what may possibly have been a laugh. “Though of course if you are one then you get used to it quick enough.”
“I would love to fly.” she said.
“Well it is vastly over-rated I think.” said the bird, “It is just like walking really.” it explained, and then noticing her screwing her face up finished with, “Only higher.”
“Well I think it would be good.” she said, a slight edge of a pout finding its way into the tone of her voice and onto her face. She thought that perhaps the bird was making far too light of most things and it made her slightly peevish.
“Well as I say it is nothing special. Not really. Think of it merely as a method to get from one place to another and it begins to lose its charm really.”
“I suppose so.” she said, and she felt her attention wandering slightly. It was a number of weeks now since the bird had first flown onto the outside of her window ledge on one cold but sunny afternoon and she had watched it carefully, tip-toeing across her room to look at it more closely, knowing full well that it would fly away as soon as she drew near. They always did. Yet this one did not. It just sat on the window ledge outside, bobbing up and down outside the glass of the window as if it was watching her almost.
It was then that she had noticed the top hat and she had giggled as she had seen it. The bird did not seem to be scared by her being so close at all and so she had leaned forward and opened the window. It had taken her all of her strength to do so, but it had slid open an inch or two and the bird had hopped inside.
Abigail knew that this was most curious behavior. Especially for a bird. It had scared her a little at first but she had stood her ground and she curtseyed as her mother had once shown her how to do and introduced herself.
“Good day to you mister bird.” she had said, “I am Abigail Rothering. “
“Good day to you too.” said the bird, and Abigail had smiled slightly. The bird talked! Yet also it wore a very fine hat, and to Abigail that was much more unusual and therefore of greater interest. Her Aunt Cecilia had a parrot and that talked after all. Yet it did not wear a hat. Not even a cap. “I am pleased to meet you.” said the bird, and it bowed slightly, and as it did so the hat did not move at all.
“What is your name?” she asked but the bird just sat looking at her for a second or two before responding.
“Birds do not really have names.” it said finally, “But you seem to, and Abigail is a nice name. How old are you, Abigail?”
“I am four.” she said proudly. “And I can name all of the planets.”
“Can you now?” said the bird, rustling its feathers slightly before appearing to look around her room. “Do you live with your parents?” The bird hopped back a little as Abigail suddenly looked very sad.
“I did.” she said sadly, “But I live with Mister Swain now.”
“Where are your parents?” asked the bird.
“They died.” she said, “Not so long ago. Mister Swains said their carriage crashed. He is my father’s brother you see and I live with him now.”
“I see.” said the bird, not moving at all.
“There was a funeral and everything.” she said. “I didn’t like it much. Everyone seemed sad and there were no other children to play with.” She seemed to think for a while, staring off into space and as she did so the bird did not move at all, it's small dark eyes looking at her almost sadly in return. “What kind of bird are you?” she asked eventually.
“Well I am a bird in a hat.” it said.
“And a fine hat it is too.” clapped Abigail, making the bird jump slightly at the sudden movement and noise. “Does that mean you are an important bird then?” The bird looked at her quizzically. “Surely a bird in such a nice hat must be important.” she said.
“Well now. Important to whom?” it said, “To me or to you?”
“Well anyone I suppose.” said Abigail.
“Well importance is such a curious thing.” said the bird. “To myself I would say not; nor to you. Shall we just say that I am a bird in a hat and leave it at that?”
“Okay.” smiled Abigail.
“Birds have no word for important you see.” it said. Abigail looked confused, for apparently birds did not seem to have many words for anything at all. The bird however seemed to realise what she was thinking.
“Of course we have a word for a hat, as you have seen. Though it may interest you more to find that we do have twenty-five words for, “worm”.” it said, and made a small cawing sound that may have been a laugh.
“Tell me one or two.” she sniffed, and leaned in closer to listen.
“Very well.” said the bird. “First there is, “Caw..aww”! Then there is “Caw… hurrrr!”
“Oo.” said Abigail, her eyes becoming wider, “What is the difference between the two?”
“Well the first means “juicy” and the second “fat.” Abigail laughed and clapped her hands again, though this time the bird did not jump quite as high as it had done the first time. The bird once again made the strange clicking sound with its beak that may have very well been laughter.
The bird had stayed talking to her for the next five minutes or so the first time that it had visited and then bidding her a very good evening it had hopped back outside the window ledge and then flown away quickly, as far as Abigail could tell in the direction of the apple tree at the end of the garden.
Several days had passed before the bird had arrived again. Once more Abigail had opened her window and in it had come, full of chat and with its hat still firmly perched upon its head. After that its visits became much more frequent, arriving on her window ledge several times a week and as winter began to approach it visited almost every day as Abigail was now hiding small morsels of bread in her sock from the dinner table to feed it with. Yet she was not entirely sure whether it was just the food that made it visit or not. It never asked for the bread, even though it did always eat it. It seemed to enjoy the talks they had even more, although some of those were quite strange. The bird also seemed to have a great deal of concern for her wellbeing.
“Does Mister Swains treat you well?” it asked her on one occasion as it pecked at the morsel of bread she had carefully placed inside the window ledge.
“Not really.” she said sadly. “He does not like children much I think. He never plays at all, and sometimes he forgets to feed me.”
“Is he a bad man?” asked the bird and Abigail thought about it for much longer than she usually thought about anything.
“No.” she said. “It is just that he doesn't love me. I don’t think it is the same thing really.”
“Does he ever hit you?” asked the bird quietly, not moving at all.
“Sometimes.” she said sadly, “Though I am sure that I deserve it.”
“I see.” said the bird, returning to the bread, pecking at it almost angrily.
“Tell me Abigail Rothering.” it said, bobbing around to face her once again, “If you could live anywhere with a
nyone where would that be?”
“Oh that is easy.” she smiled. “I would live over the hills and far away.”
“Would you now?” chirruped the bird, “And why would you want to live there then?”
“Well in the fairy stories that my daddy used to read to me it was always where everyone is safe and happy and loved. That is where I would like to live.”
“It sounds like a marvelous place.” said the bird, and with that it bobbed away outside of the window once again. “Good evening to you, Abigail.” it said, as it always did do when it flew away, “Sleep well.”
“You too.” she said and the bird flapped its wings and was gone.
For several days it did not appear again and every bedtime she would sadly flush the uneaten bread down the toilet and place the new piece of bread she had stolen from the dinner table in her bedside draw ready for the morning to wait to see if the bird would arrive.
“You said that you could name all of the planets.” said the bird in the hat one day after it had finished the bread and there was a slight lull in the conversation.
“Yes.” she smiled, clapping her hands. The bird did not flinch at all this time, for it was used to her doing so now.
“Well then.” it said, “Proceed.”
“Okay.” said Abigail, sitting upright in bed as if this was going to help her to remember. “Mercury.” she began.
“Okay.” said the bird, hopping onto the end of her bed to listen. She smiled. It had never done that before!
“Then Venus.” she hardly paused before adding, “Then the next one is right here.”
“Your bedroom.” nodded the bird. Abigail laughed.
“No. I meant Earth, silly.”
“I see.” smiled the bird.
“Then there is Mars. Then Jupiter. Then…” she paused for a moment, remembering.
“Yes?” enquired the bird as if by speaking it could help her to remember.
“April.” she said suddenly, clapping her hands again.” The next planet is April.” she smiled. “I can’t remember the other ones after that, but I think that is most of them really.”
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