The wind sirened on, a muted curse from the beyond. Not another
sound entered from the darkness, not a movement could be seen.
Behind him the gas fire hissed, it's hypnotic glow the sole source of
light in the room. He turned back from the window, and settled again
in the deep winged, leather armchair. To wait.
The room was large, and it had served many purposes. A
reassuring brick fireplace filled nearly half of the eastern wall,
the chimney fading into the beam-outlined back space above. But
where great logs should have roared, the pseudo rustic charms of the
"old brass" and "teak" fire looked persistently
ridiculous. To either side of this structure stretched row upon row
of heavily stacked, smoke darkened bookshelves, from behind which the
flaking plaster could occasionally be glimpsed.
And it was the books which dominated this room, and which gave
it all the life and character of it's sole occupant. Not just those
shelves, but almost every other feature, proclaimed the man's
obsession with the written word, his love for knowledge and learning.
Volumes of history and politics and biography. Books on the body,
the mind, the great masses of humanity which we call society. Here
were to be found all manner of the planet's living creatures, from
amoeba to whale. The natural world in all it's power and glory, the
sciences that man has developed to try and match that power, and the
religions to give him comforting explanations. And, best thumbed of
all, the literature of every continent on earth. Books of all sizes,
hardback and paperback, in varying states of repair, the few shiny
covers betraying the life in the whole; still growing it was, but no
empty collection to impress. These were books to be read. And read
again for all the mental nutrition that could be digested from
within.
It required a determined observer to ascertain any order
underlying this mass of erudition. In the northwestern corner stood
a dubious kitchen area, which seemed remarkably free of bookish
intrusions, other than a shelf of cookery works close by to the
stove. Perhaps because most horizontal surfaces were occupied by
unwashed dishes and utensils.
Further along the western wall huddled a crumpled bed. From the
centre of the candlewick folds peeked a leather bound Great
Expectations, to be read until sleep bade it fall, and to be
rediscovered upon awakening.
Elsewhere about the room stood an imposing oak dresser and
dining table, a sideboard of less obvious quality, and a long, deep
sofa. Whatever their original purpose had once been, all had now
been subsumed under the biblioscenery. There were further shelves on
further walls, and carpet pile suppressed by mini monuments to
mankind's incessant outpourings. Only on the vast leather covered
desk under a south facing window, and the squat, square coffee table
next to the armchair, was some space preserved for alternative uses -
the other great necessities of life; a typewriter, ink bottle, pens
and paper on the desk; mats for food and whisky, and a light to read
by, on the table. A crystal tumbler stood, holding a generous three
fingers.
The only other rooms in the cottage, reached through a door past
the sad cooking area, were a cramped bathroom, and a dusty bedroom.
The latter now saw only occasional use by visitors. As his physical
powers had declined in these later years, so this room had taken on a
tempelic, monastic quality.
In the chair he sat now, inhaling and sipping from the sherry
stained liquor, cradling the cut glass with affection, and studying
the artificial flickering before him as if willing it to spark and
crackle. He was a slender figure, frail and birdlike, all trace of
greyhound athleticism now gone. Thin white hair topped thin brown
face, beaky and profoundly lined. But the eyes remained still blue
and bright, as if he'd the loan of them from a younger man, still
able to dart and probe; intelligent eyes; questioning eyes; laughing
eyes. A shirt of brown check, leather-patched brown cardigan, shabby
brown cords, blending into the well worn seat, matching the comforts
of his old slippers. He switched on the lamp and, taking Anna
Karenina firmly into his hands, began to read.
He was aware of the other's presence an instant before the voice
spoke.
"Henry Goddard?" Deep, calm, reassuring. Like an
old, dear friend.
"Yes." Not bothering to turn round, knowing what to
expect. Returning book to table, place carefully marked from habit.
"I was hoping I might have time to finish my drink. Leaving
such as this to evaporate would seem like a criminal act. Perhaps
you might care to join me?" Proud that he had kept his sense of
humour intact through it all.
"How can I refuse such an offer? It's been many, many
years since anyone troubled to ask." And the visitor walked
round from behind the armchair.
If Henry was surprised by the reply, he was even more surprised
by the man's appearance. The newcomer smiled at the astonishment on
the old gentleman's face. Dumbly Henry gestured towards The Macallan
bottle on the floor by his side, and a couple of clean glasses on the
desk. The man poured himself a solid measure, topped up Henry's own,
and cleared a space for himself on the littered sofa. He looked
about fifty, grey-flecked dark hair, rugged soap-opera looks, in
expensive blue suit and soft leather moccasins. A successful
entrepreneur maybe, still with time for squash court and golf course.
"Sorry if my appearance unsettles you," he continued,
"but I can assure you it's my usual practice to come like this.
Most find it more reassuring, you know. There are few as well
prepared as you, Henry." His smile emphasised the depth of the
compliment.
Henry took a larger than usual mouthful from the glass,
swallowing noisily.
"Sorry to seem so naive, I'm not sure I really knew what I
was expecting."
"Dark, flowing robes and the glinting scythe?" The
stranger's deprecating chuckle relaxed Henry. "I have to admit
there are still occasions where that's called for, but I find it so
depressing. And my job satisfaction isn't always of the highest.
Good whisky. Best drink I've had since...." The voice died
away.
They both sat sipping, Henry reflectively examining his drink,
the man taking in the room with slow curiosity. The silence, broken
only by hissing gas and keening wind, continued, Henry thought, for
what might now be accurately described as eternity. Or was he being
premature? He looked across to his polite guest, seeking
understanding. The man spoke, choosing his words carefully.
"I have come to visit you, and you show no fear, or hatred,
or resentment. You have made me welcome, and I take pleasure from
our meeting."
"Where is the point in resenting the inevitable?"
"You are a rare creature who can accept me in this way.
For that to happen the person concerned must feel.....that they have
been what they could have been. It is not simply a matter of
achievements, even though you can be proud of those you have to your
name. No, achievements matter little in my eyes. My pleasure lies
in the knowledge that you, Henry, have Understanding."
At that moment Henry did not look like a man who understood. He
was bemused that the stranger should take time to address him in this
way. And grateful that he gave him ample time to consider his reply.
"Before you came to talk to me I felt I understood....that
accepting what has to be accepted was the wise choice. Why rage
against the dying of the light when it can cast such beautiful
shadows? But your eyes have added to my understanding. This may be
an ending, but it is also a welcome."
The strangers expression became tender, compassionate, angelic.
When he spoke his voicer seemed softer, but his words had a clarity
that would put a newsreader to shame.
"I exist from necessity. It is moments like this that make
that necessity meaningful. You are welcome indeed, Henry Goddard."
Once more the soft and eerie hush settled over the room, and
each sipped their uisge beatha in silent contemplation and
strong companionship. Eventually the stranger spoke.
"Are you ready now?"
"I had rather hoped...."
"That you might be able to finish your book in peace?"
"Before I rest in......"
They chuckled at the joke, like old friends, smiling with their eyes.
"I'm sure there's time enough. Come when you are ready."
Henry nodded his thanks, took another sip from his glass, and picked
up his volume, estimating the number of pages he still had to read.
He turned back to his visitor. And found a sofa littered with piles
of books.
Gratefully, Henry returned to Anna, sharing her pain through to that tragic
quest for his new friend on the railway tracks. And as he turned the
pages, absorbing the fate of those who survived her, he reflected on
the people closest to him, and his place in their lives. He hoped
there would be little grief, he hoped for a celebration. But, more
than anything, he hoped that, like Levin, someone he loved would find
their Understanding, and their own peace. He smiled, closed the well
worn pages on his lap, and drained the gold from his glass. Closing
his eyes to the warmth of the fire, he looked a man at ease with his
world.
The book slipped from his fingers, falling to the well worn
carpet, but Henry remained still. The only movements in the room
came from the dancing flames, the soft folds of a dark robe, and the
glint of the gaslight on a long curving blade.
