“Hard to believe there are hundreds of thousands of humans out there,” she said, close to sleep.
I thought of the new planets, the strange civilisations, that I would some day encounter—and I experienced a sudden surge of panic at the fact that Claudine was willingly forgoing the opportunity to do the same. I wanted to shake her in my sudden rage and demand that she underwent the implantation process.
It was a long while before I slept.
The following day an ambulance brought Claudine’s mother home, and I drove her over to the farmhouse. She kissed me before climbing from the car, suddenly solemn. “See you at school,” she said, and was gone.
Suddenly, the routine of school seemed no longer a burden. I could put up with the recalcitrance of ignorant teenagers and the petty in-fighting between members of staff. The sight of Claudine in the schoolyard, or seated at her desk, filled me with rapture. Her swift, knowing smile during lessons was an injection of some effervescent and exhilarating drug.
After school I would pull off the road, up some lonely and abandoned cart track, and we would make love in the little time we had before I dropped her off at home. She told me that she would spend the following weekend at my place— she’d tell her mother that she was staying with a friend—and the days until then seemed never-ending.
On the Friday, just as I was about to leave the building, Miller buttonholed me in the corridor. “What the hell’s going on, Jeffrey?”
My heart hammered. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and the Hainault girl, for Chrissake. It’s glaringly obvious. They way you look at each other. You’re a changed man.”
“There’s nothing going on,” I began.
“Look,” he said. He paused, as if unsure whether to go on. “Someone saw you with her yesterday—in your car on the moors.” He shook his head. “This can’t continue, Jeffrey. It’s got to stop—”
I didn’t let him finish. I pushed past him and hurried out and across to the car park. Claudine was standing by the bus stop on the main road, and as I let her in she gave me a dazzling smile that banished the threat of Miller’s words and the consequences if I ignored them.
On the Saturday night we lay in bed and talked, and I told her what Miller had said to me.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered in return. “They can’t do anything. We’ll be more careful in future, I think. Now forget about bloody Miller.”
We went for a long walk on the Sunday afternoon, avoiding the Station as if mutually fearing the argument it might provoke. Claudine was quiet, withdrawn, as if Miller’s words were troubling her.
She wept quietly after we made love that night. I held her. “Claudine—I’ve decided to resign, quit school. I’ll find a job in town. There’s plenty of work about. You can move in here, okay?” I babbled on, a love-struck teenager promising the world.
She was silent for a time. At last she whispered, “It wouldn’t work.”
Something turned in my stomach. “What?” I said.
“Love doesn’t last,” she said quietly. “It would be fine at first, and then…”
At that moment the room was washed in a blinding beam of light as the dead were beamed from the Onward Station to the Kéthani starship. I was appalled at what I saw in the sudden illumination. Claudine’s eyes were raw from crying, her face distorted in a silent grimace of anguish.
“Like everything,” she sobbed, “it would corrupt.”
I held her to me, unable to respond, unable to find the words that might convince her otherwise.
At last I said, “But I can still see you?” in desperation.
She smiled through her tears and nodded; touched, perhaps, by my naive hope.
In the early hours she slipped from the bed and kissed me softly on the cheek, before dressing and hurrying home.
Next day at school I desperately sought from Claudine some sign that I had not spoiled our relationship with my demands of the night before. In class, she smiled at me with forced brightness, a smile that disguised a freight of sadness and regret.
We had agreed that I would no longer drive her home, to scotch the rumours flying about the school, and that evening her absence during the journey was painful. I looked ahead to the weekend when we would be together, and the days seemed endless.
On Tuesday Claudine was not at school. I assumed that she had slept in and missed the bus.
During the first period I saw the police car pull into the school grounds, but thought nothing of it.
Fifteen minutes later the secretary tapped on the classroom door and entered. I should have guessed that something was amiss by the way she averted her gaze as she handed me the note—but what seems obvious in retrospect is never apparent at the time. The Head had called a staff meeting at first break.
When the bell went I crossed the hall to the staff room. I recall very well what I was thinking as I pushed open the door. My thoughts were full of Claudine, of course. The next time I saw her in private, I would plead with her to live with me once I had resigned my post at the school; to her claim that love never lasted I would counter that at least we should give it a try.
The room was crowded with ashen-faced teachers, and a dread silence hung in the air. Miller made his way to my side, his expression stricken.
“What?” I began, my stomach turning.
The Head cleared his throat and began to speak, and I heard only fragments of what he said.
“Claudine Hainault… Tragic accident… Her body was found in the reservoir…”
I felt myself removed from proceedings, abstracted through shock from the terrible reality unfolding around me.
Teachers began to weep. Miller gripped my arm, guided me to the nearest chair.
“The police think she slipped… went under… It was so cold she was paralysed and couldn’t get out.”
I wanted to scream at the injustice, but all I could do was weep.
“Such a terrible tragedy…” The Head paused and stared around the room. “As you know, she refused to be implanted.”
I made myself attend the funeral.
I drank half a bottle of whisky before leaving the house, and somehow survived the service. It brought back memories of another funeral, just over two years ago. Claudine was buried in the Oxenworth village churchyard, just three graves along from Caroline, beneath a stand of cherry trees which would flower with the coming of spring.
A television crew was present, along with reporters and photographers from the national press. So few people really died these days, and Claudine’s being young and attractive made the story all the more sensational. Relatives flew in from France. Her mother was an inconsolable wreck. I tried to ignore Miller and his begrudging words of commiseration; his attitude was consoling and at the same time censorious, unable to condone my love for Claudine.
I watched the coffin being lowered into the black maw of the grave, finding it impossible to accept that Claudine was within it. Then I slipped away and walked to the reservoir. A pathetic spread of wind-blown flowers, left by pupils and stricken locals, marked the spot on the bank where she had fallen.
That night I wrote a letter of resignation to the school authorities. It would be impossible to go back to the place where I had first met Claudine, to the classrooms haunted by her absence. I considered selling the house and moving from the area. Claudine still seemed present, as if she might at any second emerge from another room, smiling at me.
That night I drank myself unconscious.
In the morning, waking from oblivion to face the terrible fact of her death anew, I dressed and made my way downstairs and saw the letter lying on the doormat.
I read my name and address in Claudine’s precise schoolgirl hand.