The Angel of Mons - Chapter sixteen

Sixteen

George was surprised when Graham did not respond but took no notice of Bully who whimpered quietly in the living room. He had heard him take out the glasses and begin to prepare their evening cocktails. He had heard the familiar sound of the ice dropping in and the tonic popping open.
They had spent the day around the house. Joseph had called in and insisted that they both went round to take a look at his new paddling pool. They had both sat in the sun drinking ice tea, smiling at the child as his grin cast light across them and for a moment made George feel as if he could be young again.
It was one of his most disturbing dilutions. He kept feeling that old age was like some kind of malingering sickness, a cold or flu and now and then his mind would allow him to believe, just for a moment that he would get better. He would run in the sun, play in cold water and laugh at the setting sun.
In the late afternoon, George had once more looked through the photographs of their trip to France just three weeks before. As he looked into the now familiar images, he searched for a detail he may have missed, a dog in the background, a sign or table outside a café and he wondered what was happening at that very spot at that very moment. He wondered if the old woman in black was once again sitting outside her tiny home peeling potatoes and whether the boy with the ball was still chasing after his pet cat. He wondered if they were still alive. ‘If a tree falls in a Forrest, and there is no living creature within a mile, does it still make a sound?’
George could wait no longer. He lifted the knives and forks, the salt and pepper and made his way slowly from the kitchen into the living room.
At first he couldn’t see Graham, he could hear Holst’s ‘Planets’ blaring as always, and there sitting in his favourite chair was Graham smiling, open-eyed. Then George noticed a glass on the floor next to the chair and then he noticed Graham wasn’t there at all, his body was, but not Graham, the body was quite empty. Graham, was gone.
George’s eyes opened wide and the crockery he was holding slipped away and crashed to the ground. He stepped forward his chin hanging open and quivering. He tried to speak but no sound came out. He was alone, completely alone, alone as he had never been before. In all his dreams, all his nightmares George had never thought for a moment that this could happen. It wasn’t right; it was not the way of things. Graham had no right to go first.

Four days later Terri helped tidy away the teacups while George sat in the garden watching the sun go down, Bully nudging him gently with his old grey nose. He was grateful that she and Joseph had gone with him to say goodbye to his brother. The service had been short, but full of feeling. He would like something similar perhaps.
George wondered if he would ever laugh again. He wondered why he was hanging around. Then he looked at Joseph and his old cold heart felt a touch of warmth. The child stopped playing in the long grass and looked at him. He put down the small foam ball and walked across. He climbed onto George’s lap threw his arms around his neck and squeezed George so tight it was he who suddenly felt as though he were the child. He could smell his sweet innocent breath warm against him. “Don’t be sad old man,” said Joseph, “don’t be sad.”
George smiled and put his head over Joseph’s shoulder so the child could not see the tears as they streamed down his face. George did not know who he was crying for, was it the loss of his brother or for himself.