by Melvyn Bragg
A tightening weight about his head. The bike scythed between the hedges as he flung it into top gear and stood on the pedals, lashing them on, he had to go through it, just to come through it, speeding, the left swerve past the water tower and up the long final hill, where his own breath was fear, it had been getting better, not now - he had to come through it. On the top of the hill he saw the yellow glow from the factory. A few score yards on, at the old hill point, known as Standing Stone, Wigton emerged into view, grew out of the earth, it seemed, and by the distant safety-net of its street-lights he saw that he was there, still there.
There was still the bedroom to face, and he would always be afraid, but he had come back to himself. He had got through. He was there. He freewheeled down into the town.
It was dark in the bedroom but through a slit in the curtains a slender shaft of moonlight picked out the shapes. She had been awake for some time now.
Sam was turned away from her, sleeping heavily, breathing deeply, not for some time the nightmares, now and then the light gravel of a snore.
Ellen had gone around the town, street by street, alley, lane and yard, even house by house, the reliable way to introduce the easy drowsiness which could tip her back into sleep but not tonight. She was too preoccupied.
She had found out where her father was buried. Colin had collapsed before her resolution and she had all the details. When she had been in Carlisle with Sadie she had gone to the information office at the bus station and copied down the connections. If she started early enough she could be there and back in a day, comfortably, and give herself good time at his grave. She would go the following Wednesday.
There was a feeling akin to excitement, an agitation, a desire to be under way. There would be a flower shop near the cemetery. She would borrow some shears. She would tell only Sam and he would keep it just between them.
One day she would take Joe.
