Spider Light(127)
‘Near enough. The reverse side of its coin is dwarfism, of course. But in the good old, bad old days, people ascribed all kinds of menace to the poor sods who had it. They thought of them as unnatural–creatures to be feared. Sometimes the condition brought about swelling of the soft tissues as well, including the tongue, which made speech difficult. That would add to the sinister air of it all. If the skeleton was a hundred years old, that means he lived in a time when he could have suffered one of two fates. He could have been exhibited as a freak, or–more probably–been shut away somewhere.’
‘Latchkill,’ said Oliver softly.
‘Yes, that’s more than likely. It’s not so long since it was known as giantism.’
‘Blunderbore or Pantagruel, and seven-league boots, or the blood-sniffing lament of Child Rowland approaching the Dark Tower,’ murmured Godfrey, and then turned fiery red, and apologized.
‘Well, whatever he was or wasn’t, and wherever he came from,’ said Curran, ‘we’ll make sure he has suitable burial in the churchyard.’ He stood up. ‘Miss Weston, I’ll let you know what happens with Miss Robards.’
‘I’d have to give evidence, wouldn’t I?’
‘I’m afraid so. Is that all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Antonia. ‘But whoever it was–Donna Robards or someone else altogether–I think you’ll find she isn’t fit to stand trial.’
‘Will you come back to the hospital?’ said Jonathan to Antonia, as they left Quire House. ‘To work, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. Would it be possible?’
‘I think so. The board’s talking about expanding my department–making a full-time drug rehabilitation unit. They’ll need someone to head that–maybe undertake some research as well. I could probably swing it your way.’
‘I don’t want anything swung my way. I’d rather get things by my own efforts.’
‘You would get this by your own efforts. You’d be a good person for the job. Are you going to try for reinstatement?’
‘I don’t know.’ Antonia did not say she was afraid of doing this, because a refusal would be too much of a blow.
‘You could start getting back into things with the new unit,’ said Jonathan.
‘Prove myself all over again, and then go cap in hand to the GM? “Please let me be a doctor again.”’
‘Don’t be so spiky. I’m trying to help you.’
‘I know you are. I’m sorry. Can I think about it?’
‘Yes, of course. You aren’t going to stay here though, are you?’
‘I’ll have to stay for a bit longer.’
‘Why? The police investigation’s wound up. What is there to stay for?’
‘Oh,’ said Antonia vaguely, ‘loose ends to tidy up.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Dear Daniel
Your letter reached me earlier today–I was in the gardens here, and although I wasn’t wearing a shady hat like my grandmother apparently used to, I was cutting sheaves of lilac for the rooms as she once did. It’s not to scent the rooms, you understand–it’s to drive away the smell of the paint. My grandmother probably had only the sounds of rooks cawing or doves cooing or something equally idyllic: I have the sound of hammering and sawing from within the house, although at least the bailiffs have gone, which my father says is God’s mercy. I should think they were very glad to go–they must have had a thin time of it here, what with the rain coming in through the roof in about forty different places, and death-watch beetle feasting off the timbers.
So it isn’t quite the Irish idyll you said you visualized, but to me it’s still the most beautiful place in the world, and–will you understand this, I wonder?–it’s my place in the world, just as it’s my father’s place. I won’t wax absurdly lyrical about soul places, but I think he and I both knew that one day we would come back here. My father says he thanks whatever saints are appropriate that there were entails thicker than leaves on the ground in autumn, and that he was still the owner–he smiles when he says this, and tries to pretend he doesn’t care one way or the other, but he does care, of course, and he’ll be eternally grateful to George Lincoln for that astonishing legacy. He’s sent quite a large sum of money to help the endowment of the new wing for Latchkill–he’s done that anonymously, so I’m trusting you not to tell anyone.
Thank you for telling me about Maud. She was so confused and unhappy, wasn’t she? But the piano is a wonderful idea–perhaps she will find some kind of peace in her music.
I’m glad the memorial clock to Thomasina Forrester is in its place at last, but I’m not surprised that your prediction about it was right, and that it’s the most appalling monstrosity imaginable but it’s very generous of you to pay for its installing, and to set up the little fund for someone to wind it every week. I think I do understand what you said about liking to know it will be there in the future. You always have felt deeply about things, and there’s no accounting for these feelings, is there?
I’m working in a hospital just outside Connemara for two days in each week, and I love that. When you get here next week, I’ll take you to see it.