A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(196)
“There are different sorts,” Arabella went on. “Your choice can be governed by what you want to do with the ashes. Some people find it a comfort to keep them, while others—”
“No urn,” Frank interrupted. “I’ll just take the ashes as they come. In a box. In a bag. However they come.”
“Oh. Well, of course.” Her face was utterly dispassionate. It was not for her to comment upon what the loved ones of the departed did with the departed’s remains, and she’d been trained well enough to know that. Frank’s decision would not bring Markham & Swift the business they were probably used to, but that was not Frank’s problem. So the arrangements were made quickly and with a minimum of fuss. In very little time, Frank found himself climbing behind the wheel of the Peugeot, negotiating his way down Brock Road and afterwards up towards St. Sampson’s harbour. It had been an easier process than he had expected. He’d left the cottage first, going to the other two adjoining cottages to check on their contents and to lock their doors for the night. Returning then, he’d gone to his father, who sprawled unmoving at the base of the stairs. He’d cried out,
“Dad! God! I told you never to cli mb...” as he rushed to his side. He found his father’s breathing was shallow, nearly nonexistent. He paced the floor and looked at his watch. After ten minutes, he went to the phone and punched in emergency. He made his report. Then he waited. Graham Ouseley died before the ambulance got to Moulin des Niaux. As his soul passed from earth to judgement, Frank found himself weeping for both of them and for what they had lost, which was how the paramedics came upon him: crying like a child and cradling his father’s head, where a single bruise marked the spot where his forehead had struck the stairs.
Graham’s personal physician was in quick attendance, clamping a heavy paw on Frank’s shoulder. He would have gone quickly, Dr. Langlois informed him. He probably had a heart attack trying to get up the stairs. Too much strain, you know. But considering how little bruising there was on the face...Chances were very good that he was unconscious when he hit the wooden step and dead shortly thereafter with no knowledge even of what had suddenly happened to him.
“I’d just gone to lock up the cottages for the night,” Frank explained, feeling the tears on his cheeks drying to burn the cracked skin round his eyes. “When I came back...I’d always told him never to try...”
“They’re independent, these old blokes,” Langlois said. “I see this all the time. They know they’re not spry but they’re not about to be a burden to anyone, so they just don’t ask for what they need when they need it.”
He squeezed Frank’s shoulder. “Very little you could have done to change that, Frank.”
He’d stayed while the ’medics brought in their trolley and he’d lingered even after the body was borne away. Frank had felt compelled to offer him tea, and when the doctor confided, “Wouldn’t say no to a whisky,”
he brought forth and poured two fingers of Oban single malt and watched the other man down it appreciatively.
Before he left, Langlois said, “The suddenness of it all when a parent goes is a shock, no matter how much we prepare ourselves. But he was...what? Ninety?”
“Ninety-two.”
“Ninety-two. He would have been prepared. They are, you know. That lot, that age. They had to be prepared half a century ago. I expect he thought any day he lived after nineteen-forty was a gift from God.”
Frank desperately wanted the man to be gone, but Langlois prattled on, telling him what he least wanted to hear: that the mould into which such men as Graham Ouseley had been poured at birth had long since been broken; that Frank should rejoice at having had such a father and for so many years, indeed into his own senior age; that Graham had been proud of having such a son with whom he could live in peace and harmony even unto death; that Frank’s tender and unceasing devotion had meant much to Graham...
“Treasure that,” Langlois told him solemnly. Then he’d gone, leaving Frank to climb the stairs to his room, to sit on the bed, to lie on it eventually, and to wait dry-eyed for the future to arrive. Now, having reached South Quay, he found himself trapped in St. Sampson. Behind him traffic from The Bridge was backing up as shoppers left the commercial precinct of the town and headed for their homes while in front of him, a tailback extended all the way to Bulwer Avenue. There, at the junction, an articulated lorry had apparently made too sharp a turn into South Quay and was jack-knifed in an impossible position with too many vehicles trying to get past it, too little space in which to manoeuvre, and too many people hanging about offering advice. Seeing this, Frank jerked the Peugeot’s wheel to the left. He eased out of the traffic and onto the edge of the quay, where he parked facing the water. He got out of the car. The dressed granite of the harbour walls enclosed few boats at this time of year, and the December water that lapped against the stones had the advantage of being free from the petrol slicks of high summer left by careless casual boaters who were the constant bane of local fishermen. Across the water at the north end of The Bridge, the shipping yard sent forth its cacophony of pounding, welding, scraping, and cursing as craft brought out of the water for the winter were overhauled for the future season. While Frank knew what each sound was and how each related to the work being done on the boats in the yard, he let it stand in place of something else altogether, transforming the pounding to the steady march of jackboots on cobblestones, the scraping to the rasp of a slide arm as a rifle was cocked, the cursing to the orders given—understandable in any language—when it was time to fire.