The old man stared at him and said coldly:
— Since when do you think I need to hear that kind of nonsense? I shall be dead before the year is out. And glad of it. I’ve seen enough of this world. I want to …
He paused, and a shadow settled in his eyes. He blinked rapidly and went on:
— I want to go home.
Peter lifted his eyes to the window.
— Home? he murmured, puzzled.
The old man followed his son’s gaze to the window, to the trees and the soft sunlight. He said:
— I’ve lived too long. These last years have been useless. They have kept me going with needles and drugs and pills, and for what? To see everything slip away and die. Now you are going too and I have nothing. Even your mother won’t visit me.
Peter looked at him and said evenly:
— Dad, you know mother is dead.
— Do I need to be told that?
Again his eyes wandered to the window.
— When we were young we used to walk up here. Fields then. Nothing but fields. The city was smaller. It was easy to live and we thought we would live forever. But everything dies. I’ve lost two wives. I’ve seen too many deaths and now all I live for is to see my own.
Suddenly he turned to them, and his little eyes were bright. He clasped his hands together and said briskly:
— You’re going away.
— Yes.
— When?
— Monday we —
— Where?
— France first and then —
— How will you live?
— Well, we’ll … we’ll find things as we go along. Fruit picking or — anyway I have a little money.
The old man nodded once, and gave a long sigh. He leaned back against the pillows and after a moment he said quietly:
— You have my money.
Peter looked at him, and his forehead wrinkled.
— How do you mean, dad?
— I sent instructions yesterday that you were now solely in charge of my affairs.
— What does that mean?
Muriel leaned across the bed towards Peter. There was apprehension in her eyes. She clutched his hand, but he did not look at her. The old man glanced in her direction and said:
— Be quiet, girl. Now, my boy, I shall tell you what it means. You are from now head of the firm of Williams and Son.
Peter’s mouth was open as he stared at his father. There was a long silence. At last Peter said:
— But I am going away, dad.
The old man waved a hand.
— The business runs itself. You may take your holiday. It means merely that you will now be rich enough to enjoy it.
— But dad …
— Well?
— I don’t know. This is all very —
Muriel struck his wrist with her knuckles, and he turned to her in surprise. She said slowly:
— We’re going away, Peter.
He smiled, and as though explaining to a child he said:
— Yes, of course, Muriel. You heard dad saying we could go.
— That’s not what he said, and you know it.
They stared at each other, and the old man watched them, the thin smile on his lips. He said to her quietly:
— Everything dies, my dear. Everything.
Without looking at him she stood up and walked stiffly to the door.
— Where are you going? Peter called.
She paused with her hand on the door, but did not turn.
— I’m going, she said.
And was gone. Peter turned to his father, and the old man said innocently:
— The young lady seems upset. I wonder why.
— I don’t know.
The old man picked at the sheet, his lips pursed. After a moment he said:
— Peter, I think I may have exaggerated a little. Head of the firm — a figure of speech, you understand. But you have the money, which I suppose at this stage is what matters. Anyway, the business would bore a young man. Am I right?
— I suppose so, dad.
Peter uncoiled himself from the bed.
— I think I better follow her. You’ll take care of yourself until we get back.
— Of course.
He went to the door, and there the old man’s voice stopped him:
— But you won’t be going away now, will you?
— Why do you say that?
He pulled the sheets an inch nearer his chin and folded his hands again over his stomach. He said:
— I shall live a little longer, now.
Peter went out into the corridor. With the door almost closed he stopped and looked back at his father through the narrow opening. The old man was smiling to himself. When he turned to the door, Peter quickly closed it, but not before he heard:
— And bring your mother with you next time, boy.
Outside the hospital Muriel stood and watched the gardener cutting down the dead stalks of flowers. When Peter came up she did not move or speak. He said peevishly:
— Why did you run out like that? He is my father, after all.
— I’m sorry, she said in a flat voice.
They turned and started down the drive. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and said:
— I think we’ll have to wait a week or two now before we go. This changes things.
— Yes.
They moved slowly between the smooth lawns. The afternoon was ending. In the trees the birds were going mad.
A Death
They lowered the coffin into the grave, and Stephen turned away his face. He watched idly a small, fat man who moved with curious stealth along the perimeter of the dark yew trees. Far in the distance the sea was swollen and rough, and dotted with flecks of white. A cold wind came from the north, carrying with it a few small drops of rain. The little man had halted, and now stood motionless against the restless trees, staring fixedly across the headstones at the bedraggled groups of mourners. Stephen looked back to the grave. They were watching him, he tried to weep, but he had no tears. Beside him Alice sobbed, and that seemed ironic. She had hated the old man. He frightened her, or so she said.
The ceremony ended and they moved away from the grave.
— How do you feel? Alice asked. Are you all right?
— Yes. Fine. I’m glad it’s over now.
He put his arm around her shoulders as she stumbled through the thick damp grass. She had not even yet become accustomed to her pregnancy. The wind blew in the trees and rattled the branches as if they were hung with bones. He shivered, and said:
— Let’s get out of this place.
They began to walk faster, but when they came to the main path Alice’s steps faltered, and she hung back, murmuring:
— O my God …
He looked where she was looking, and saw coming toward them the fat little man who had stood in the trees behind the grave. He wore a dusty black overcoat that reached well past his knees. His head was completely bald, and on the back of it a hat, too small for him, sat crookedly. As he hurried along on his little legs he cast frightened glances to right and left. He stopped before them and leaned close with an air of conspiracy. The rain was releasing from his coat a dull faint smell.
— Stephen, he breathed. My sympathy.
Stephen took the offered hand and glanced uneasily at his wife. She stood with downcast eyes, tightly clutching her gloves.
— Such a wonderful old person, Stephen, the little man said, gazing up at him with intense bright eyes. As you know, I knew him well and it was such a shock to see him go like that so suddenly. Dear me, such a shock. Indeed yes.
— I’m sorry, Stephen said. I don’t seem to remember —
— Come, the little man interrupted him. I’ll walk with you to your car.
He stepped between them with a neat little hop. With protection now on either side of him he lost his furtive air. Stephen looked over the top of the bald pate between them at his wife, signalling frantically with his eyes, but she would not look at him. The little man said: