Skyfire

by Sam Galliford

  “‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends’,” she quoted. “If that is what you want to believe, then so be it.”

  “I do believe it,” he affirmed. “Mark was a good friend, the best that anyone could have.”

  They both looked out over the park, lost in their own thoughts.

  “By the way,” Aunt Gwendoline continued. “In all this talking about Dr Brinsley you have never told me what he looked like.”

  “Mark,” he grinned. “He was nothing special. He was not tall, a touch shorter than me, youthful in general appearance, slim, slight frame. Unfashionably, he had a moustache, not a big one but just a trim, neat one, and he had a scar on his forehead, the result of an accident in the chemistry lab when he was a student. It was rather a deep scar and stretched a long way back over his left eyebrow. I gather the explosion that caused it would have taken out his eye if he hadn’t been wearing safety spectacles. But appearances aside, the thing everyone remembers most about him was his enthusiasm. Whenever I brought him something to analyse from four thousand years ago, he would never believe the job impossible. He had a pile of old notepaper on his desk and he used to grab a handful of it and start scribbling on it, drawing out chemical structures, jotting down odd thoughts and performing calculations, and he would keep them all together until he had solved the problem. And then he would call me and I would go over to see him, and he would be standing on the steps of the school of chemistry with his sheaf of notes in his hand. And he would wave them at me and call out ‘I’ve got it. I’ve got it all worked out’. And he would spread out the sheets on his desk and go through all his calculations and show me how he had done it. He was a marvellous teacher, Aunt Gwendoline, and I shall miss him very much.”

  He stopped abruptly on the edge of tears.

  “I am sure that is how you will remember him,” she ended.

  Rani sensed her mistress’ change of attention and trotted back to her without a call, wagging her tail stump vigorously in the pleasure of the afternoon.

  “I really must get you home,” Aunt Gwendoline smiled at the dog. “You have been out for quite long enough and my goodness, Rani, look what dirty paws you have.”

  “I’ll run you home, Aunt Gwendoline,” smiled Gerard. “I have the car handy and it will be no trouble.”

  “That’s very kind of you but we cannot have those dirty paws on the upholstery, can we, Rani? By the way, have you heard anything of Susan?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” he replied. “She was at Mark’s funeral, which pleased me. I hadn’t expected to see her there after all the reservations she had about him. She’s a lovely girl but it seems that we are unlikely to see each other again, at least not for a long time. She’s got a job in Spain and will be moving there at the end of the month.”

  Chapter 57

  The tea was Assam and the sandwiches were smoked salmon and cucumber, and Aunt Gwendoline had been out especially that morning to buy some fresh cream chocolate éclairs as something of a celebration for them. A faint perfume of lavender permeated the air from the pure beeswax polish applied to the gloriously nut brown and gold antique furniture that filled the room, and fine Beswick, Meissen, Wedgwood and Staffordshire porcelain pieces, all washed gently using only the purest soap, gleamed at them from their appointed positions. All clocks were showing the correct time taken from the ever-constant Victorian oak-cased clock in the hallway, and the aspidistra had been sponged and wiped until its leaves were sparkling and glossy and the moisture in its root soil checked to be correct by fingertips humidically trained over a lifetime. Rani had been brushed and assured that fresh cream chocolate éclairs were not for dogs, and she rested watchfully content with a plain biscuit at her mistress’ feet. Gerard could only look about him and imagine the gloved butler and the capped and pinafored parlour maid presenting him with his tea and éclair.

  “So, you’re off to Australia,” Aunt Gwendoline began. “It sounds exciting for you.”

  She was rather relieved if she cared to admit it. Although Australia was in the same part of the world as many of those other more jungly countries she was constantly reading about in the newspapers, it did sound a lot more civilized.

  “Yes,” he replied. “It was something of a surprise. Some colleagues at the Australian National University heard about my efforts to get my dig up and running in Vietnam, so they have organised a six month sabbatical for me. They’ve even convinced the Australian Government to chip in some money from their overseas development fund to help with the work. I leave for Canberra in a couple of weeks and I’m looking forward to it. I’ve been brushing up my French to communicate with the local officials in Ban Long. Hanoi University is providing most of the field support, and hopefully I will also be able to pick up enough Vietnamese to get by.”

  There was no doubting his excitement.

  “Australia,” she mused. “That’s where your Chatterwood vase came from if I remember correctly, wasn’t it?”

  “Great-aunt Alice’s vase that Sue broke? Yes, so you told me.” He became thoughtful. “It’s very strange, but it now seems such a long time ago. So much has happened, and it all seemed to start with Sue driving my golf club through Aunt Alice’s vase.”

  “Yes, it was strange,” Aunt Gwendoline agreed.

  “I still find myself thinking about Mark and Janet and what wonderful people they were. They had so much to give and so many dreams to pursue. It does seem unjust that a single, violent act can cause so much loss well beyond itself. To be completely honest, that is part of the reason I am going to Australia. I feel I need to get away for a while. I shall be back, of course, if for no other reason than I will miss our Wednesday afternoon teas.”

  He gazed around the room with all its treasures. It was comfortable and sheltering and he knew he would always be at home within it.

  Aunt Gwendoline looked at him pensively.

  “Come,” she instructed.

  She stirred herself and walked towards one of her glass fronted cabinets.

  “Help me with this, will you? My fingers don’t go in the directions they should any more.”

  He opened the cabinet with the key she handed him, and from its far corner she pulled out a blue and white Chatterwood vase, a sister to the one that had been smashed by his golf club. She ignored his stunned expression.

  “Your vase was one of a pair that came from my parent’s house,” she explained. “They were given to my father by one of the river pilots who used to bring the cargo ships into port so the iron and steel from Felderby Iron Works could be loaded. Presumably the pilot in his turn got them from one of the crew of such a ship.”

  She up-ended the familiar blue and white porcelain and scrutinised the maker’s mark on its base.

  “When our father died, Alice took one of them,” she continued. “They had not much value as a pair, and since Alice insisted on living in one of those fashionably modern houses that date so quickly and don’t appreciate fine porcelain in pairs, I took the other. You will notice that this one is in far better condition than the one she gave you. Perhaps you would like to find a place for it in your luggage when you go to Australia. It is, after all, where it came from. Don’t be too concerned about it, though. It has little monetary value, and in spite of what your mother might think it is not Ming.”

  She placed the vase in his hands, closed her cupboard door and returned to her chair, chortling to herself as she went.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he gasped.

  “Just keep it with you to remind you of home,” she replied. “Who knows, you may find more Chatterwood on your travels around Australia. I should imagine there might be quite a bit of it knocking around odd corners in somewhere like Tasmania.”

  “I’ll do that,” he laughed. “Aunt Gwendoline, you are a surprise. I wondered how you knew my vase so well, and all the time you had the other one of the pair. I would have to say that is taking unfair advantage. I wil
l keep it with me, if only to remind me of you.”

  She beamed at him and rather enjoyed the moment, a feeling obviously shared by Rani who stood happily beside her vigorously wagging her tail stump.

  “But now I must leave,” ended Gerard, “I still have lots to do back at the university if I am going to catch my plane to Sydney. Thank you, Aunt Gwendoline. Thank you so much, for everything. In the meantime, I will miss our Wednesday afternoon chats, so look out for the postcards.”

  She saw him out of the door, waved to him as he closed the garden gate, and watched him as he strode firmly and happily up the road clutching his Chatterwood vase under his arm.

  “He’s a good ’un, our dad,” she shrugged to her Victorian oak-cased clock. “One of the best, but then you knew that didn’t you?”

  “And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself,” she scowled at the aspidistra as she returned to her sitting room.

  She looked down into its dark green centre and noticed a new leaf uncurling from the base.

  “You can’t claim all the credit,” she snorted at it. “I agree it was not an unreasonable idea of yours to use our Alice’s vase as the means of bringing the whole business to my attention, but you were lucky that our Gerard’s young lady friend was not more badly hurt. If that had happened then I don’t know that I would ever have forgiven you. But you got away with it, so we’ll say no more.”

  She stood back and softened her tone.

  “We managed it, didn’t we, Mother? You, me and our dad. We did bring him home safely and that is all that matters. And now he is off once more to the other side of the world. Hopefully, he will keep our other vase with him, but don’t be in too much of a hurry to break that one like you did the other. I would like something left in my china cupboard when I finally come to leave this earth, and Australia is a very long way to go should I have to get there in a hurry. I’m not sure my old bones could manage it.”

  She looked down at her companion and smiled.

  “Yes, I know, Rani. I am just a silly old woman who talks to an aspidistra. Everything just happens as it does without any interference from me and I would be foolish to think otherwise. Now, what I could do with is a really good cup of tea. Something with some real stiffening in it, some Chai I think, and I am absolutely certain we will be able to find a nice piece of fruit cake for a very good and patient dog. How does that sound? Come along and we will see what we can find.”

  The aspidistra settled back in its decorated pot on its table in the corner, and Aunt Gwendoline considered the wisdom of attempting a little skip of triumph as she walked out to her kitchen. Had she been a few years younger she would not have hesitated.