July, 16th

Richard:

The past two weeks have been quite a change. It was hard to come back to Oxford, to places I had last seen when my life was so different - yet less than a year has passed. Everything spoke of Maria but at the same time everything was indifferent to her absence. It's been bittersweet.

Spending time with Adam is good, if sometimes a little hard; Adam is a good friend but our differences have never been more obvious than now. He's strong and spares no energy in self pity, which makes me feel a little inadequate for feeling so down for Maria's passing; but at the same time I wouldn't be taking Maria seriously if I weren't sad.

I mentioned this conundrum to Adam and he said that I have to learn to be happy again, that experiencing joy without my wife's presence means no disrespect to her memory. Easier said than done, I believe. The prospect of experiencing merriment is as foreign to me as would be flying.

I've already packed my suitcase and came down for breakfast. Adam has always been an early riser and that was what made us friends in the first place; we were the only ones to show up well before classes when we were still students.

It's 8 o'clock and we've finished our cups of coffee and toasts. It was a light breakfast but I feel full and heavy. Maybe have I an indigestion? I'm short of breath, as I've experienced often since February, and these palpitations are making me uncomfortable.

I really don't feel well. I look up at Adam, who's reading the paper, and try to talk, to say something, but the sounds that come out are really strange, like a bang on a broken wooden box. Adam, who's a little heard of hearing (though he'd never admit it or maybe doesn't realize), doesn't put down his damned paper and I don't try again.

My chest hurts as if an iron fist was clenching, squashing, squeezing me, relentlessly. I gape for air but it's useless, I'm drowning. I feel needles and pins in my limbs, my ears buzz and I'm dizzy. I can't keep my head up anymore; I fall face first on the table and then collapse to the right of the seat and onto the cold tiled checkered floor of Fiona West's kitchen, where my consciousness just saunters away never to return.

Frederick:

I suppose that in retrospect this is not so unexpected after all but I'm in shock. Adam West called from Oxford to tell me my father had a heart attack earlier this morning and died.

My father is dead. Takes a while to get used to that, doesn't it?

Adam offered his assistance and I made decisions. The funeral will be held in Oxford as soon as I can go, hopefully in a day or two; Adam will now go to Milton to tell Margaret in person and stay with her until someone else can go.

I'm flying to Oxford first and then I'll go to Milton with Margaret, to sort things out quickly and then come back to Cádiz. Dolores will go to Oxford and be back in a quick round trip - she'll be more time in transit than the funeral itself but she insisted; Olivia stays with my in-laws. My aunt Anna agreed, after some coaxing and cajoling from me, to fly from London to Milton and then take Margaret back to London with her.

There's no way we're letting Margaret stay all alone in Milton. She should stay with aunt Anna, or Edith and Ian, or come with us to Cádiz. Our father is dead, and it's going to be quite a blow for her.

Margaret:

The weather forecast was right: today is a very pretty summer day. I made my father's bed with freshly laundered sheets and later went into the tiny garden to cut flowers for vases throughout the house. I went groceries' shopping and bought some fish to prepare tonight or tomorrow. I also have Granny Smith apples, my father's favorites, juice and yogurt.

I eat a salad for lunch and sit to rest a little with a book in the living room before my father comes from the train station. The windows have been open for hours, there is a calm breeze that makes the white curtains bellow. The old volume in my hands is a 1940's edition of Great Expectations that belonged to my grandfather, and I'm told, was a prized possession.

I'm focused on my reading when something flutters nearby and draws my attention away from the page. It's a butterfly, a gorgeous brilliant blue butterfly (I don't think I'd seen butterflies in Milton before) that parades before me, in and out the sunlight that seeps through the leaves of the tree in the neighbors' patio. Its simple beauty is breathtaking. The butterfly perches on the edge of my book - I could touch it but I don't dare, takes the rest it needed, gets up and leaves through the window.

I stand and smile it goodbye, and walk to the window to see where it goes to. When I'm standing in front of the window I hear a car coming and killing its engine right by our house. A minute later Mr. West walks to our door, alone, and then I know it. My father is dead.

John:

5.00 PM, finally. I've finished everything I had to do, even made sure a restaurant I like had tables available for tonight. Mr. Hale mentioned coming back in the 4.00 PM train so he must have been home for a while now.

I get my phone and call him. His mobile phone is off so I call the land line. I'm not lying, I hope Margaret picks it up. It rings twice and someone answers.

-"Hello?" It's a man's voice but not Mr. Hale's.

-"Hello", I reply. Who's this person? "I would like to speak to Richard or Margaret Hale, please".

-"Thornton, is that you?", says the voice, "Adam West here". Oh, Mr. West. Why is he picking the phone?

-"Oh, how are you doing?" I say politely.

-"Not well", he replies. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Richard died this morning of a heart attack in Oxford".

This needs a moment to sink. Along with this bit of news my hopes for the weekend are sinking too, but it's too petty and selfish to admit, even to myself. I realize I'm silent and I aim to say something.

-"I'm sorry to hear it", I finally say. "If there's anything I could to, just say the word." And then I ask the question I really, really want to ask. "How are Mr. Hale's children? How is Margaret?"

-"They're both in shock but that's to be expected. An aunt is coming from London to keep Margaret company until the funeral, which will take place in Oxford". There's a silence. I don't know what to say. "You were a good friend to Richard, if you want I can give you the time and address of the funeral."

I hadn't thought about that. "I'd appreciate that, Mr. West."

-"It's nothing. Ah, by the way, congratulations for passing your exam".

My exam? Who cares about my exam? The consequences of this death are still to be known, but I have the feeling I've wasted a precious opportunity to atone myself. I suppose that if I had to wait for a drunk and pathetic detective to tell me what I already knew, then I had it coming, didn't I?