immune from that world. He finally, softly, placed the book on the desk.
His last two conversations with Simone still haunted him. After their discussion about Nabokov he had reflected on the idea of how immoral it is not to understand the impact of your own behaviour on somebody else. And inevitably he thought of Jessica - so lost to him now but only because of his own actions. He had sunk so deeply into his grief over Lucyâs death that he had been unable to respond to anything and as he wallowed in his despair and anguish, he was blind to the pain of everyone else.
Now he could clearly see how this had affected his other daughter. She had been neglected by him when she was just as devastated and uncentred by the inexplicable tragedy of Lucyâs accident as he was. Rejected when she needed him most, she learnt not to need him at all and turned hard against him. He had tried in these last years to win her back but she resented his efforts as being too little too late. She had been fifteen years old when he left Louise for Charmaine and now, able to make decisions about her own life, she chose not to be around him, made it clear that she didnât respect him.
And thatâs why his last conversation with Simone Harlowe also haunted him. In discussing Remains of the Day they spoke about the great tragedy in the way Stevens chose a life of duty over a life with a family. While he hadnât put his work first, what he had done, in his smothering depression and desperation, was reach for Charmaine to rescue him rather than reaching for his family. He chose her over them. Charmaineâs deceit about wanting children meant he had lost the promise of a new family and he had turned his back on the one he already had. Little wonder that Jessica couldnât forgive him.
âWould you like to come over for your birthday?â he had rung to ask just three days ago.
âNo. Iâm busy.â
âYou should make time to see your old dad.â
âWhy? You never made time for me.â
âThatâs not true, Jess,â he sighed. âIâve always loved you.â
âNot as much as you loved your other daughter and not as much as you love yourself.â
This was typical of the way Jessica spoke to him. Her hostility towards him made him feel defeated and deflated. And in the end, because he knew he had made her feel that way, that it was a result of his own failings, it made him want to disappear, to have all the atoms that made him float apart until they melded into the thin air.
He opened the lowest desk drawer and pulled out a large envelope, then searched for his address book across the desktop, finally locating it under a stack of photocopied articles that he had been meaning to read. He opened it and looked for a newer entry. He copied the address under the letters that formed Simone Harloweâs name. He slipped his treasured leather book of poetry inside, opened the wooden box that had housed the key and pulled out as many stamps as he could find.
On a piece of paper he wrote:
⦠a loveless world is a dead world, and always there comes an hour when one is weary of prisons, of oneâs work, and of devotion to duty, and all one craves for is a loved face, the warmth and wonder of a loving heart.
He slipped the paper into the envelope.
After sealing the package with tape, John walked to the hall. Still in his pyjamas, he huddled into his coat and wrapped a scarf around his neck without letting the book out of his grasp. Once he had checked his coat pocket for his keys, he quietly slipped out of the house and into the night.
The walk to the post box at the corner of his street was no more than a three-minute one but the cold seemed to lengthen the time to twice that. Johnâs body tensed up from the cutting chill, his bare feet numbed. When he reached the mail box he looked at the name written forcefully across the package. He brought the parcel to his lips.
His last two conversations with Simone still haunted him. After their discussion about Nabokov he had reflected on the idea of how immoral it is not to understand the impact of your own behaviour on somebody else. And inevitably he thought of Jessica - so lost to him now but only because of his own actions. He had sunk so deeply into his grief over Lucyâs death that he had been unable to respond to anything and as he wallowed in his despair and anguish, he was blind to the pain of everyone else.
Now he could clearly see how this had affected his other daughter. She had been neglected by him when she was just as devastated and uncentred by the inexplicable tragedy of Lucyâs accident as he was. Rejected when she needed him most, she learnt not to need him at all and turned hard against him. He had tried in these last years to win her back but she resented his efforts as being too little too late. She had been fifteen years old when he left Louise for Charmaine and now, able to make decisions about her own life, she chose not to be around him, made it clear that she didnât respect him.
And thatâs why his last conversation with Simone Harlowe also haunted him. In discussing Remains of the Day they spoke about the great tragedy in the way Stevens chose a life of duty over a life with a family. While he hadnât put his work first, what he had done, in his smothering depression and desperation, was reach for Charmaine to rescue him rather than reaching for his family. He chose her over them. Charmaineâs deceit about wanting children meant he had lost the promise of a new family and he had turned his back on the one he already had. Little wonder that Jessica couldnât forgive him.
âWould you like to come over for your birthday?â he had rung to ask just three days ago.
âNo. Iâm busy.â
âYou should make time to see your old dad.â
âWhy? You never made time for me.â
âThatâs not true, Jess,â he sighed. âIâve always loved you.â
âNot as much as you loved your other daughter and not as much as you love yourself.â
This was typical of the way Jessica spoke to him. Her hostility towards him made him feel defeated and deflated. And in the end, because he knew he had made her feel that way, that it was a result of his own failings, it made him want to disappear, to have all the atoms that made him float apart until they melded into the thin air.
He opened the lowest desk drawer and pulled out a large envelope, then searched for his address book across the desktop, finally locating it under a stack of photocopied articles that he had been meaning to read. He opened it and looked for a newer entry. He copied the address under the letters that formed Simone Harloweâs name. He slipped his treasured leather book of poetry inside, opened the wooden box that had housed the key and pulled out as many stamps as he could find.
On a piece of paper he wrote:
⦠a loveless world is a dead world, and always there comes an hour when one is weary of prisons, of oneâs work, and of devotion to duty, and all one craves for is a loved face, the warmth and wonder of a loving heart.
He slipped the paper into the envelope.
After sealing the package with tape, John walked to the hall. Still in his pyjamas, he huddled into his coat and wrapped a scarf around his neck without letting the book out of his grasp. Once he had checked his coat pocket for his keys, he quietly slipped out of the house and into the night.
The walk to the post box at the corner of his street was no more than a three-minute one but the cold seemed to lengthen the time to twice that. Johnâs body tensed up from the cutting chill, his bare feet numbed. When he reached the mail box he looked at the name written forcefully across the package. He brought the parcel to his lips.
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