Virgil listened to the wind and the rain battering the outside of his tent, picked up his notebook and pencil and started to write;

"It has been almost a year since I lost her.

She was beautiful, kind, spirited. The first time we met, she slapped my face. No, I am not going to tell you why. Suffice it to say that it was a misunderstanding. We were going to be married. Scott and the guys had agreed that I could build myself a home of my own on the island, provided I was able to make do without professional contractors of course. We could never have had anything else built on the island by contracted workers without giving ourselves away. But designing her own home was something that Constance had always dreamed of, and she was eager for us to make it our very own project. My brothers would have helped, naturally. Of course, this was whilst dad was still missing, so he was not available to ask. We all know what he would have said, however.

John took a special course and became licensed to perform marriages so that he could marry Connie and I on mother's beach. Everything was organized, and we were all getting excited. Connie and I had organized our own honeymoon. We had planned to spend a week on safari in Africa; then three days in London, seeing the sights and a couple of shows at the same time; then we had planned to go on a three-day cycle tour of Holland, staying in hotels and guest houses along the way. Johnny had even arranged for our luggage to make the same journey through Holland with us by different means, arriving at each guest house approximately when we did so that we would not have to strap it all on to our bicycles. John is a stickler for details! We had then planned to fly to Italy and spend five days in Rome before flying to Venice and spending a romantic long weekend there before heading back home to Tracy Island.

She had gone out shopping. Her outfits were all prepared, but she had gone shopping for some last-minute items when she was knocked down and killed by a hit-and-run driver.

She was killed just two weeks before our wedding day.

I suppose I have always worn my heart on my sleeve. Not by choice, let me say. Especially a man of my build and reputation, a member of International Rescue, the supposed `powerhouse' of the team, I am not the type of man most people would expect to burst into tears in front of them; on duty I am generally able to maintain focus and professional detachment, on the surface at least. At home it's another matter. But for the first few weeks following her death and memorial service, I just couldn't stop it, wherever I was.

No one can sustain tears constantly of course, and after the first twenty-four hours or so, the floods became intermittent. You know how grief goes, I really don't need to spell it out. But even six weeks later, when I was really needed to get back on duty I found the strain of keeping my composure very difficult. The slightest thing could set me off. A stray piece of music, a familiar scent. One time a young woman we were rescuing spoke with a very similar voice to Connie's. So similar that it set my heart racing, and my foolish brain galloping off on idiotic notions of "Could it be her after all? Perhaps she's not really dead?"

I have thankfully managed to get it through my thick skull that my Connie is dead, and I am never going to see her again. As much as I hate and resent it, that is a fact that I cannot ignore or deny. I have finally managed to accept it. I still weep for her at night from time to time, but through the day my brothers have got into the habit of watching out for me, making sure that my hands, or rather, my brain is not left idle for too long, and although she is rarely far from my thoughts, I am able to remember the funny things. I can talk about her without the constant waterworks. I know she would approve. She was a very happy soul and she would have been telling me off if she could have seen how far I fell after her death. I am still not back to the man I was, but I'm getting there.

The reason I am writing this now, is because we are camped at the foot of a most magnificent waterfall. One of the tallest and loveliest I have ever seen on this continent, and as soon as I laid eyes on it, they filled with tears. This was the sort of place that Connie would have loved.

Connie was an outstandingly gifted poet. She would have been moved to poetry by the stunning beauty of this place. As she was moved to write, I am moved to draw or paint. This time though, I sat with a blank page in front of me, hardly seeing the view at all. I was just seeing her lovely face; and wishing desperately that she was here to see it with me. If she had not died, she would be my wife now.

Wife.

But instead of that, she died, was cremated, and her ashes buried respectfully on Tracy Island in a private place only I know.

When Scott saw my blank paper after sitting there for two hours, he asked me if I was alright? Guess what happened next? Yup, off I went again, blubbing like a two-year-old. My brothers were all there for me, hugging, plying me with hot chocolate (John) and toasted marshmallows (Alan), but contrary to current habits, every time I tried to start talking about my feelings and what set me off this time, my voice dried up, and I choked and couldn't get the words out. Then it started heaving it down and we all dashed for our tents. So, here I am writing it all down, so that later, when the rain stops, and we sit around our considerably dampened campfire, if I still cannot talk about her, I can give Scott this to read aloud. Perhaps I will anyway…

I remember when we lost mom…dad was devastated. I always knew how terrible it was to lose someone, whoever it was, but I must admit that even as a kid I wondered once or twice how it was that it took dad a whole month before he remembered that he had kids. If it hadn't been for Scotty and grandma and grandpa…

I understand now.

I hope that Scott, John, Gordon and Alan never, ever learn to understand it.

It has been eleven months. The world used to be rainbow coloured. Then it was just grey. Now I am seeing the world in multi-colours again. In some ways better than before, because I Connie taught me to see the world in the unique way that she did. I pray that I will never forget her. Despite the agony of her loss, she made me appreciate my world so much more."

Virgil put his pencil back in its box and rested his notebook down on the end of his sleeping-bag. He unzipped his tent and poked his head out. He was greeted with John peering up into the sky.

"It's stopped raining. Fancy a hot chocolate?"

Virgil smiled and nodded, crawling out through his tent-flap and standing erect, finally. John eyed him.

"You look slightly happier than you did earlier, little brother. Did you take a nap?"

Virgil shook his head.

"No, I was writing, actually."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"You? Something private?"

Virgil nodded.

"Yes, in a way. Let me help you get the fire going, and if you like, you can read it aloud to the others."

John nodded in understanding.

"Ah, I see. Catharsis, eh?"

Virgil smiled, looking up at the waterfall.

"Actually, yes John. It was very cathartic."