He had sat in the garden and seen a blackbird gathering moss from the roof. He had watched a bumblebee bounce against the kitchen window and heard the cry of swifts newly returned.
Yes, he thought, he had been quite happy despite the withdrawal from his family. This was what the ancients had been after, an untroubled, solitary existence, away from all the fever and the fret.
Rain fell on his face as dawn began to break.
The next morning the police phoned to say that the boy had died. His parents lived in Edinburghâs New Town. They had one other son: Allan.
They would let him know about the funeral.
Jack tried to concentrate on his work.
He thought perhaps he should do something on the myth of Iphis, who hanged himself when Anaxerete did not return his affection. How many in the classical world had died or killed themselves for love?
Perhaps he would make his students study the description of the moment of death in Lucretius: the departure of the spirit as smoke floating in the air.
Quod genus est Bacchi cumflos evanuit.
Just as happens when the bouquet of wine has vanishedâ¦
Could his students think of a better word than âbouquetâ?
Aut cum spiritus unguenti suavis diffugit in auras.
Or when the sweet breath of ointment has dispersed into the airâ¦
Couldnât they do better than âointmentâ or âunguentâ? Why couldnât they be bold and use âperfumeâ or âfragranceâ, and make the fact of death nothing more than the fragrance of a passing woman?
Aut aliquo cum iam sucus de corpore cessit.
Or when the flavour has passed from a substanceâ¦
Wasnât there a better way of translating this to make death more sensual, more pleasing, evanescent?
Jack could not concentrate. He decided to write to the boyâs parents. He had to say something and writing it down would clarify his thinking. Then he could begin to come to terms with what had happened.
He made himself another cup of tea, and tidied up the kitchen, thinking of what he might write. He looked out his best fountain pen and filled it with ink. Each time he started he could not quite think how to phrase the letter.
Dear Mr and Mrs Crawford,
I wanted to write to say how sorry I am that the accident happened.
Was âaccidentâ the right word? How else could he describe it? âIncidentâ? That made him sound like a policeman. âEventâ? It wasa bit more than an âeventâ. He remembered reading articles in the Sunday papers telling him never to apologise or admit responsibility at the scene. It meant that he couldnât say what he really felt. He crossed out what he had written, drew out a fresh piece of paper, and began again.
I am sorry about all that has happened. It must have been a terrible shock.
Was that good enough? It seemed so bald. âShockâ. Surely he could do better than this? And was it a âshockâ in any case? Perhaps there had been signs, warnings, previous attempts? He could not assume anything at all.
It must be awful to lose a child in this way.
Would the parents still see their son as a child? Jack didnât regard his daughters as âchildrenâ any more. Perhaps he should say âsonâ? Or would that imply that to lose a son was worse than losing a daughter?
I wanted to let you know that, if there is anything I can do, or if you would like to talk about what happened, I would be happy to do so.
âHappyâ? Glad? Would he really be âhappyâ? Perhaps he should say âpreparedâ.
I would be prepared to do so.
But was that friendly enough? How could he strike a balance between concern and distance?
He had never had to write a letter of condolence to a stranger before. It was different with friends. He had learned to suggest that the deceased were still with them, even if not in any bodily form. We carry them with us into the rest of our lives, to the last extremity,
tempus in
Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson
Stephen - Scully 08 Cannell