Long Lankin: Stories Read Free Page B

one leg. The old man was tiny, his feet reached only half way down the bed. His thin hair was white as the walls, and his eyes were small and dim and seemed to look inward. His withered hands lay motionless on the covers like two white, plucked birds. He continued to gaze at them without sign of recognition. Peter rubbed his hands on his trousers, and laughed nervously and said:
    —It’s me. Peter. How are you today, dad?
    Without a word the old man turned back to the window. Peter signalled with his eyes to Muriel, and she sat down carefully on the end of the bed. She said brightly:
    —Hello Mr. Williams. It’s Muriel. Don’t you remember me?
    The old man looked at her and calmly said:
    —I remember you.
    His voice was surprising, strong and deep, a heavy man’s voice. It was all that remained of his youth.
    —I’m glad, she muttered weakly, and looked down at her fingers worrying the clasp of her bag. Peter put his hand on her shoulder. He said:
    —You look well, dad. How are they treating you here?
    The old man smiled faintly and said:
    —Their kindness is proportional to the size of one’s fee. They show me great kindness. I should have stayed at home.
    Peter sat on the bed at the other side from Muriel and wound his long legs about each other. The old man looked at him without expression and asked:
    —Where is your mother?
    Peter opened his mouth helplessly and said nothing. The old man went on:
    —She should come to see me. It’s not asking a great deal of her. Tell her she must come.
    —Yes dad. I’ll tell her.
    The old man leaned forward and peered closely at his son.
    —You look unhappy, he barked. What is it?
    —Nothing, dad. I’m happy.
    —So you should be. You have a life.
    There was silence. From outside came the snip-snip of shears. The old man sighed, and his hands fluttered restlessly. Peter said:
    —We’re leaving on Monday.
    The old man said nothing for a moment, and Peter glanced at Muriel. She was still looking at her hands, but she was faintly smiling now.
    —This is the last time you will see me then, the old man said.
    Peter laughed uneasily.
    —Why do you say that?
    —Because it’s true.
    His dim eyes turned swiftly and settled on Muriel. Loudly he asked:
    —Are you going with my son, young lady?
    —What?
    She looked up quickly and glanced at Peter, who said:
    —Yes, dad, Muriel is coming with me.
    The old man murmured sourly:
    —Has she no voice?
    Muriel lifted her head and shook a strand of hair away from her forehead. With her eyes narrowed she stared at the old man.
    —Yes, I’m going away too. Peter and I are going away together.
    The old man shrugged his shoulders, and the faint shadow of a smile came back to his face. He said:
    —She has a voice.
    Peter shifted on the bed, took out a cigarette and put it away again. He locked his fingers together and said:
    —We’ll come back at the end of the year to see you, dad.
    Muriel turned and stared at him, but he had turned with his back to her. She opened her mouth to speak but the old man was there before her.
    —I shall be dead by then.
    Peter rubbed his forehead and said:
    —Don’t talk like that, dad. Why, you’ll outlive us all.
    The old man stared at him and said coldly:
    —Since when do you think I need to hear that kind of nonsense? I shall be dead before the year is out. And glad of it. I’ve seen enough of this world. I want to …
    He paused, and a shadow settled in his eyes. He blinked rapidly and went on:
    —I want to go home.
    Peter lifted his eyes to the window.
    —Home? he murmured, puzzled.
    The old man followed his son’s gaze to the window, to the trees and the soft sunlight. He said:
    —I’ve lived too long. These last years have been useless. They have kept me going with needles and drugs and pills, and for what? To see everything slip away and die. Now you are going too and I have nothing. Even your mother won’t visit me.
    Peter looked at him and said evenly:
    —Dad, you know