wrong, feeling unable to comfort her. He had been frightened to go into the room and face her like that. Already he had come to see her as strong, impervious – braver, harder than his own mother. As a child he could not fathom her sorrow. He never fully understood why. He had come to love her strong calves and muscular hands and loud, strong laugh. He couldn’t bear to see her broken, at a loss.
But in the morning, to be sure, she would be fine again. Two aspirin and an omelette after the chickens were fed; and it was over for another year. The next summer it would happen again. Her pain never seemed to lessen. Each year it would return with the same ferocity, like a perennial frost.
Daniel thought about it. Minnie must have died on 9 or 10 August. Was it the grief that had finally killed her?
He looked around the room. He was surprised to feel the weight of the house. The memories that it held leaned on him and brushed against him. He remembered both her tears and her laughter: the easy lilt of it that had once charmed him. Then he remembered again what she had done to him. Gone, but still he could not forgive her. Understanding her was something, but it was not enough.
Daniel closed the lid of the piano. He looked at Minnie’s chair, remembering the sight of her, sat with her feet up, telling stories with the light of the fire in her eyes and her cheeks pink with mirth. Beside the chair was an open box file. Daniel picked it up and sat down in Minnie’s chair to examine the contents. Newspaper clippings from the Brampton News and the Newcastle Evening Times fluttered into his lap like anxious moths.
A car crash involving a woman and two children resulted in the death of six-year-old Delia Flynn, from Brampton in Cumbria. The other child passenger sustained minor injuries but was released from hospital on Thursday evening. Delia was taken to Carlisle General Hospital where she died two days later from serious internal injuries.
The mother of the child, who was driving the car and who escaped with minor injuries, refused to comment.
There were two other articles on the car accident, and then another piece drew Daniel’s attention. It was partially torn and had been ripped from near the fold of the newspaper.
F ARMER F OUND D EAD IN P OSSIBLE S UICIDE
A local man and Brampton farmer was found dead on Tuesday night following a shooting incident. An investigation is under way, but police are not treating the death as suspicious.
Daniel sat in silence in the cold living room. As a child he had tried to ask her about her family, but she would always change the subject. The rest of the box file was filled with paintings that Delia had done: finger paintings, leaf rubbings and mosaics of lentils and macaroni. Not knowing why, Daniel folded up the two newspaper clippings and slipped them into his back pocket.
It was cold, and he stamped his feet as he walked around. He picked up the telephone. The line was now dead. The answer-phone was flashing and he played the messages.
There was a breathy female voice that whispered, ‘Minnie, it’s Agnes. I heard you’re not able to come on Sunday. I just wanted tosay I’m happy to take the stall. I hope you’re not feeling too bad. Talk t’you later, I think… ’
The machine moved to the next message:
‘Mrs Flynn, this is Dr Hargreaves. I hope you can call me back. I have the results from the consultant. You missed your last appointment. They certainly warrant discussion and I hope that you are able to reschedule. Thank you.’
End of messages, the machine proclaimed.
There were letters piled on the chair next to the telephone in the hall. Daniel flicked through them. There were red letters from the electricity board and the telephone company, letters from the RSPCA and PDSA, copies of Farmers Weekly. Daniel swept them to the floor and sat down, a hand covering his mouth.
The chill bone of the discordant notes sounded in his head. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Daniel was unable
But in the morning, to be sure, she would be fine again. Two aspirin and an omelette after the chickens were fed; and it was over for another year. The next summer it would happen again. Her pain never seemed to lessen. Each year it would return with the same ferocity, like a perennial frost.
Daniel thought about it. Minnie must have died on 9 or 10 August. Was it the grief that had finally killed her?
He looked around the room. He was surprised to feel the weight of the house. The memories that it held leaned on him and brushed against him. He remembered both her tears and her laughter: the easy lilt of it that had once charmed him. Then he remembered again what she had done to him. Gone, but still he could not forgive her. Understanding her was something, but it was not enough.
Daniel closed the lid of the piano. He looked at Minnie’s chair, remembering the sight of her, sat with her feet up, telling stories with the light of the fire in her eyes and her cheeks pink with mirth. Beside the chair was an open box file. Daniel picked it up and sat down in Minnie’s chair to examine the contents. Newspaper clippings from the Brampton News and the Newcastle Evening Times fluttered into his lap like anxious moths.
A car crash involving a woman and two children resulted in the death of six-year-old Delia Flynn, from Brampton in Cumbria. The other child passenger sustained minor injuries but was released from hospital on Thursday evening. Delia was taken to Carlisle General Hospital where she died two days later from serious internal injuries.
The mother of the child, who was driving the car and who escaped with minor injuries, refused to comment.
There were two other articles on the car accident, and then another piece drew Daniel’s attention. It was partially torn and had been ripped from near the fold of the newspaper.
F ARMER F OUND D EAD IN P OSSIBLE S UICIDE
A local man and Brampton farmer was found dead on Tuesday night following a shooting incident. An investigation is under way, but police are not treating the death as suspicious.
Daniel sat in silence in the cold living room. As a child he had tried to ask her about her family, but she would always change the subject. The rest of the box file was filled with paintings that Delia had done: finger paintings, leaf rubbings and mosaics of lentils and macaroni. Not knowing why, Daniel folded up the two newspaper clippings and slipped them into his back pocket.
It was cold, and he stamped his feet as he walked around. He picked up the telephone. The line was now dead. The answer-phone was flashing and he played the messages.
There was a breathy female voice that whispered, ‘Minnie, it’s Agnes. I heard you’re not able to come on Sunday. I just wanted tosay I’m happy to take the stall. I hope you’re not feeling too bad. Talk t’you later, I think… ’
The machine moved to the next message:
‘Mrs Flynn, this is Dr Hargreaves. I hope you can call me back. I have the results from the consultant. You missed your last appointment. They certainly warrant discussion and I hope that you are able to reschedule. Thank you.’
End of messages, the machine proclaimed.
There were letters piled on the chair next to the telephone in the hall. Daniel flicked through them. There were red letters from the electricity board and the telephone company, letters from the RSPCA and PDSA, copies of Farmers Weekly. Daniel swept them to the floor and sat down, a hand covering his mouth.
The chill bone of the discordant notes sounded in his head. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Daniel was unable
Similar Books
