about it, had a superstitious fear of putting into words the circumstances of his death. Describing it, talking about it, meant that it was
true, that she accepted that it had all happened and in that way. In the process of telling it, he would become a story, a tale to be told, someone to be spoken about by others, but who no longer
said anything himself.
‘He was in Stan’s Bar in Stockbridge,’ she started, hesitating before forcing herself to go on, listening to the sounds coming out of her mouth as if they were being made by
someone else. ‘I don’t know who he was with exactly, Cici told me their names but I didn’t know any of them. Some of his studio pals, apparently. I phoned her to find out what had
happened . . . because she’d been with him. She said that he was knocking back the drink a bit and became argumentative, so she decided to leave. He left at the same time, and as he was
crossing the road, dawdling a bit, he was hit by a car. Simple as that. They took him –’
She stopped, aware that tears had forced their way into her eyes again. ‘Well, not him any more... his body . . . to the Infirmary, but it was too late. DOA. Dead on arrival. I saw
him.’
‘What happened to the car driver? Was he hurt?’ Helen asked, slipping another plate into the rack.
‘I don’t know. It was a hit and run,’ Alice replied, tired with the effort of speaking. ‘Eric didn’t tell me and I forgot to ask. I’ll be told as soon as they
get him.’
‘Quiet you two! Ssshh!’ Angus demanded, putting his finger to his mouth to silence them and adding, ‘I can’t hear the telly!’
Seeing her sister’s appalled expression, Alice wordlessly put an arm around her shoulder. She did not mind what the boy had said, would have preferred to remain silent herself. But to
admit this sounded too unfriendly, and she did not have the energy to work out how to phrase it as tact required. It would be difficult to tell Helen that the children’s complete indifference
to her predicament seemed preferable, at present, to her own obvious concern. Their self-absorption meant that they required nothing of her, had little interest in anything she said. Her tears did
not have to be hidden from them because they would not notice them even if they were coursing down her face. Their own inner worlds were so interesting, so vivid and engaging, that little of anyone
else’s impinged upon them. So she did not have to make any effort with them, nothing needed to be hidden or explained. Thankfully, the part she played in the drama of their lives was so small
that they would not notice her absence from the stage. Yet they were company. In contrast, Helen’s sweet sympathy demanded a response.
‘Aunt Alice?’ Angus said, rising from his place on the floor and toddling towards her, the lip of an empty beaker trailing behind him along the tiled floor.
‘Yes?’
‘Why are you here?’ he asked, frowning, looking at her and attempting to drain the last drop of juice from his beaker.
For a moment she was not sure what to answer. Did he know? Should she allude to Ian’s death or simply gloss over it? Angus knew him after all, had referred to him as ‘Uncle
Ian’ on their last stay. But maybe she was supposed to palm the child off with some innocent lie? Such as, ‘I’m here because I like it here.’ Or perhaps his parents had a
policy of not shirking the ‘big issues’ as they arose? What did the boy know of death?
‘Well,’ she began, feeling the need to say something and catching her sister’s eye, in the hope that she would provide some kind of guidance on the appropriate answer. But
before she had begun to formulate anything, the boy yelled, ‘Prank Patrol!’ and rushed back to the TV set.
Later that morning, Alice went alone to feed the chickens. Her nephews, too busy wrestling with each other, had declined to come with her and she was relieved to be on her own.
The silence outside was like balm. The
true, that she accepted that it had all happened and in that way. In the process of telling it, he would become a story, a tale to be told, someone to be spoken about by others, but who no longer
said anything himself.
‘He was in Stan’s Bar in Stockbridge,’ she started, hesitating before forcing herself to go on, listening to the sounds coming out of her mouth as if they were being made by
someone else. ‘I don’t know who he was with exactly, Cici told me their names but I didn’t know any of them. Some of his studio pals, apparently. I phoned her to find out what had
happened . . . because she’d been with him. She said that he was knocking back the drink a bit and became argumentative, so she decided to leave. He left at the same time, and as he was
crossing the road, dawdling a bit, he was hit by a car. Simple as that. They took him –’
She stopped, aware that tears had forced their way into her eyes again. ‘Well, not him any more... his body . . . to the Infirmary, but it was too late. DOA. Dead on arrival. I saw
him.’
‘What happened to the car driver? Was he hurt?’ Helen asked, slipping another plate into the rack.
‘I don’t know. It was a hit and run,’ Alice replied, tired with the effort of speaking. ‘Eric didn’t tell me and I forgot to ask. I’ll be told as soon as they
get him.’
‘Quiet you two! Ssshh!’ Angus demanded, putting his finger to his mouth to silence them and adding, ‘I can’t hear the telly!’
Seeing her sister’s appalled expression, Alice wordlessly put an arm around her shoulder. She did not mind what the boy had said, would have preferred to remain silent herself. But to
admit this sounded too unfriendly, and she did not have the energy to work out how to phrase it as tact required. It would be difficult to tell Helen that the children’s complete indifference
to her predicament seemed preferable, at present, to her own obvious concern. Their self-absorption meant that they required nothing of her, had little interest in anything she said. Her tears did
not have to be hidden from them because they would not notice them even if they were coursing down her face. Their own inner worlds were so interesting, so vivid and engaging, that little of anyone
else’s impinged upon them. So she did not have to make any effort with them, nothing needed to be hidden or explained. Thankfully, the part she played in the drama of their lives was so small
that they would not notice her absence from the stage. Yet they were company. In contrast, Helen’s sweet sympathy demanded a response.
‘Aunt Alice?’ Angus said, rising from his place on the floor and toddling towards her, the lip of an empty beaker trailing behind him along the tiled floor.
‘Yes?’
‘Why are you here?’ he asked, frowning, looking at her and attempting to drain the last drop of juice from his beaker.
For a moment she was not sure what to answer. Did he know? Should she allude to Ian’s death or simply gloss over it? Angus knew him after all, had referred to him as ‘Uncle
Ian’ on their last stay. But maybe she was supposed to palm the child off with some innocent lie? Such as, ‘I’m here because I like it here.’ Or perhaps his parents had a
policy of not shirking the ‘big issues’ as they arose? What did the boy know of death?
‘Well,’ she began, feeling the need to say something and catching her sister’s eye, in the hope that she would provide some kind of guidance on the appropriate answer. But
before she had begun to formulate anything, the boy yelled, ‘Prank Patrol!’ and rushed back to the TV set.
Later that morning, Alice went alone to feed the chickens. Her nephews, too busy wrestling with each other, had declined to come with her and she was relieved to be on her own.
The silence outside was like balm. The
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