9. February 2013 – 5 – London
The day of the wedding dawned clear and cool and even with some promise of early Spring warmth for the afternoon. Before they knew it the time had arrived to get ready so Hope decamped to the main bathroom, leaving Harry in peace in the en-suite to prepare for his important supporting role. The better part of an hour passed before they met up again and both found their breath catching in their throat. If anything, she though, he looked even more spectacular than he had at the congress dinner, dressed in an exquisitely tailored, understated, silver-grey tails, crisp white shirt, dusky dark rose silk tie and platinum cuff-links glinting elegantly at his wrists; unsurprisingly, he was thinking much the same about her. The dress she had finally found was a 1950s inspired piece in chocolate silk taffeta shot with black, with intricate bias cutting, a narrow skirt, three quarter sleeves and a boat neckline that showed off her decolletage to perfection. Tiger's eye and gold jewellery and her usual subtle hair and makeup finished the effect. They just stood, almost dumb-struck, drinking each other in, until he held out his hands to her and said, when she took them and smiled at him,
"God, you're beautiful."
"Liar, but I'll accept it. So are you." And it was true. He was mesmerising to look at, an effect only enhanced when he spoke and she realised, again, that his voice was undoubtedly even more seductive than his appearance. Sighing reluctantly, she went on matter of factly, "We really should depart otherwise I'm going to have to start undressing you, especially if you keep looking at me like that!"
Laughing, he kissed her very carefully so as to not smudge her lipstick before checking his watching and doing a double-take.
"Christ, you're right, we'd better get going!"
The venue was a tiny, ancient chapel in an equally ancient churchyard not far from Malcolm's place on the outskirts of the city. Arriving just after the groom, who was attired much the same as his best man, they met at the doorway and Harry effected the introductions. Malcolm was tall, slender and dapper, with silver hair to match his suit, an impish gleam in his dark eyes and had responded to the introduction in perfectly pitched, extremely elegant Mandarin, instantly delighting her. Listening to the two men banter, Hope rapidly realised that they shared the same sense of humour as well as 25 years of working together and began to understand how they had stayed such quiet, understated but firm friends.
Malcolm, for his part, took in the tall, athletic, graceful woman in front of him, with eyes deeper and more ancient than the yard they were standing in and an almost palpable aura of tranquillity, saw how she looked at his old friend and how he looked back, and was happy. He had always had un-nameable doubts about the odd relationship with Ruth; he had once heard Harry decrying his daughter's tendency to pick up any bird with a broken wing that she found, with the implication that she got the rescue instinct from her mother. Over the following years with the Ruth relationship, however, Malcolm had realised that Catherine was far more likely to have got it from her father. Along with his well-known penchant for giving people second chances, if ever there was a human version of a broken-winged bird it had been Ruth but Harry had found the right one this time. Maybe, hopefully and for the sake of the man's sanity, there would be another wedding soon...
Guests were beginning to arrive and Hope and the two men were about to move inside when a quiet, deep voice said from behind them,
"Hello, Malcolm, Harry." The trio turned, the two men with delighted smiles on their face. Hope saw a younger, dark haired man who was as tall as Malcolm grinning at them, a spectacular, if slightly brittle, California blonde standing next to him.
"Tom, Christine, thanks for coming," Malcolm shook the younger man's hand and kissed the woman on the cheek; Harry just smiled, said their names and proferred his hand to Tom only to be hauled into a quick bear-hug.
"You're looking well, Harry."
"I am well. And who wouldn't be, on a day like today?" He turned and kissed Christine on both cheeks but Hope sensed there was a tiny bit of animosity in the other woman's eyes, although it faded as soon as it had appeared. She would find out what that was about one day, perhaps: it clearly wasn't of major importance to Harry as it didn't even seem to register with him. Feeling an inquisitive, bright blue gaze on her Hope turned back to the younger man as Harry rejoined her. "Tom, Christine, this is Hope Johnson. Hope, Tom and Christine Quinn."
Oh, that Tom, she thought as they shook. Harry's Section Chief who had later carried out that extraordinary joint operation with mysterious Ilya Gavrik and the FSB to gain the justice owed to Ruth and the others after RussiaFirst. And his ex-CIA wife... Seeing the trio measuring each other with their eyes Harry said quietly,
"It's alright, Tom, she's one of us. Current national security advisor to the Australian government, same background of the rest of us, just in the other hemisphere."
Tom continued to look at her and she looked back, equally as calmly. Then he smiled.
"We must talk later, then! Christine and I could do with an update on south-east Asia—"
"You are not talking work at Malcolm's wedding, or at least not now." Harry cut in, putting his arm around Hope's shoulders and the authority unmissable in his tone. "It's probably time we got inside, the bride is due to arrive any minute, so come on."
When she did arrive, Hope understood immediately why Malcolm was smitten and from whence the flattering colour scheme for the gentlemen of the wedding party had come. Angharad, being walked down the tiny aisle by her eldest daughter, was a tall, slender vision in silver and dusky pink silk with a silver lace bolero jacket and a pill-box hat with silver netting perched on her cloud of platinum hair. And her cornflower blue eyes were all for the equally tall man waiting for her at the altar.
The service was short, sweet and rather lovely. Half an hour later they were all outside again, in the pale spring light, waiting for the obligatory photos to be finished. Harry had rejoined Hope as soon as they were back outside and they were talking to Tom and Christine when the two men were called over for a mug shot with the happy couple. Following more slowly, the American woman asked,
"Have you known Harry long?"
Hope slid her eyes sideways and gave a half smile.
"Well, we first met, ooh, getting on for 25 years ago but that was only in passing and neither of us really remember much about it, although I do remember that he was ridiculously beautiful at the time! Then we didn't physically meet up again until last September, although the jobs had kept us in intermittent contact over the years. You two have presumably actually known him for longer, though."
"Ten or eleven years, on and off, for me. Much longer for Tom, of course. You know Harry was his boss?"
"Yes."
"And that he decommissioned him?"
"I'd heard something of the sort. For good reasons, though, I believe. Is that why you're ambivalent about him?"
The blonde's eyes sharpened. This relaxed, middle aged woman didn't miss much... Christine sighed.
"No, he was right to do it, Tom was a mess. The ambivalence is because Harry broke Tom and I up." Hope lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. She knew his own past with Elena Gavrik and – what was her name? Juliet something, who had been his senior officer – had left him hypersensitive on the subject of his officers getting involved with anyone from other agencies, whether on the same side or not, since the 1980s and it sounded like this pair had paid the price. Christine lowered her eyes for a moment before looking up, slightly rueful. "And he was right to do that at the time as well. We have actually forgiven him for it all and I've grown almost as fond of the old man as Tom is, it's just a stupid automated reaction I always have the first time we meet after a while. His actions, deserved or not, caused us such pain at the time."
They both looked over at their men-folk and Malcolm signalled for them to come over.
"Less of the old, by the way, he's not that ancient!"
"No, I know that. But he's dropped about 15 years since we last saw him, last year. I presume that's down to you."
They started to make their way across the yard, carefully stepping around soft patches to avoid their heels sinking in.
"Partly. Maybe. We've been good for each other."
"Obviously!" Christine flashed a crafty smile that transformed her face and instantly endeared herself to the older woman by asking bluntly, "Oh, and what do you mean 'ridiculously beautiful'? Harry?!"
Hope suddenly grinned at her young companion.
"Absolutely! He was a stunner – still is, but then I'm biased. A head full of spun gold curls, impressively fit, that bloody irresistible voice, the charm and of course he's always been a serious flirt so it's no wonder all the girls just fell at his feet. Funnily enough I wasn't one of them at the time, though, he was a bit too pretty for my taste."
"He's never flirted with me," Christine grumbled under her breath as they approached the wedding group and Hope chuckled quietly.
"Have you ever given him a chance?"
"No. I might now, you have me intrigued and Tom has always said Harry would have flirted with Osama bin Laden if he thought it would have got him what he wanted and it probably would have!"
Both of them were laughing at that image by this stage as they joined the men and the happy couple and were obliged to submit themselves to the ministrations of the photographer. Eventually it was over and they could all repair to the reception venue where the half a dozen large tables were scattered around a small dance floor. It was a very relaxed occasion once the meal was done and the dance floor became more popular as the night wore on. Hope was delighted to find Harry was an excellent dancer, better than she was, so she could relax into his arms as he expertly guided them around the floor. She was stolen by Tom at one point, when Harry was talking to Malcolm and a couple of other old work-mates; once he realised, he promptly grabbed Christine and took her out instead. The looked like they were enjoying themselves and the woman was definitely encouraging him to flirt; towards the end of the evening, when they were back together, taking a break on the side of the dance floor, she said,
"You and Christine looked like you were enjoying yourselves. I wasn't sure how you'd go when I saw you getting her out."
He knew she wouldn't have missed that inevitable reaction from Christine. It was water off a duck's back to him and he understood the Californian's reasons perfectly, so he shrugged and answered,
"She is fine now, has been for some time. I believe they have both forgiven me for the action I took that day. It was for his own good. If he had stayed I dread to think what would have happened to him."
He looked bleak, remembering Tom's melt-down and what it had led to, both in the short and long term. Recognising the potential for his recollections to unsettle him and risk stirring up his depression again (she harboured no illusions that he was completely recovered on that front, for all his resilience) she tried to divert him.
"Christine told me she was really pissed off with you at the time because you had made them break up."
That made him look at her again.
"Did she tell you why?"
"No." He explained. "Ahh. Fair enough. She did say she'd forgiven you for that as well, by the way."
"Yes, I know." He reached for her hand and kissed it. "Did she also tell you that Tom is the one responsible for the rather nasty bullet scar on my shoulder that you're so fond of trying to kiss better?"
"What? No! How the hell—"
Her genuine disbelief was an odd sort of joy for him – she wasn't completely unflappable then! – and he suddenly grinned.
"Long story. I'll tell you later but it was after I decommissioned him. He put a bullet in me to stop me from stopping him doing something stupid. Just as well he's such a good shot, even with a rifle. As it was he only just missed taking out my lung."
She stared at him, wide eyed – for once, something he had said had surprised her.
"Jesus, Harry, one of your own tried to kill you? And you're still talking to him?"
He continued smiling as he shook his head.
"No, he didn't try to kill me. He just wanted to stop me. He wasn't in a good frame of mind at the time, shall we say."
She gazed at him with a mixture of disbelief and creeping admiration.
"You really are a most unusual man, Harry Pearce. We might be two sides of the same coin but there are differences in the pattern after all. I'm not sure I could be so generous."
He shook his head at her.
"Yes, you would, under the same circumstances." A fond smile crossed his face. "First day back at the office after I got out of hospital I walked into a meeting to hear the crew discussing it. One of them – Adam – asked me if I was in Tom's position would I shoot me. I had to walk out before I burst out laughing because the answer was 'yes'!" She smiled back at him, still unsure if she could be so magnanimous, but he had cocked his ear to the music and then, standing up, pulled her to her feet. "Come on, this one sounds like a good excuse for a cuddle in public..."
It was a fairly slow song so they moulded themselves together, cheek to cheek. Malcolm, watching from where he was standing with his new wife, smiled gently; Angharad followed his gaze and said,
"They look happy."
Draping an arm around her shoulders he kissed her temple.
"I believe they are, cariad. And if any of us have earned it, he has."
"What do you think of her, now you have met?"
The question was apposite. He had been pondering that ever since the meeting in the pub and hadn't been able to come up with an answer until today. He had never met Jane but knew she had been fierce, feisty and highly intelligent (and that Harry had never forgiven himself for destroying something that was so good); he was aware of Belle (most people who moved in certain circles were aware of Belle!), who fit much the same description but was too much of a free spirit to be tied down by anyone; and then there was Ruth, who had also had her fair share of the three attributes, at least in the early days before life, the job and events often beyond her control contorted her into something almost unrecognisable.
Hope, though, was something slightly different: no doubting her strength of character, independence and intelligence (he had snatched another slightly esoteric conversation with her in Mandarin earlier in the evening and had enjoyed every minute of it), he could now understand Harry's comments. Hope was stillness incarnate, like a bottomless pool of cool, clear liquid and exuded what he recognised as a Zen calm, even when she had been gently teasing him during their earlier discussion. There wasn't a shred of malice in her body and she had a very Taoist philosphy of accepting things as they came, without judgement.
"I like her. And I think she is exactly what he needs and is well overdue in his life."
The couple were indeed happy, enjoying each other's touch without talking. Hope was thinking of nothing, half listening to the music – it was their old friends, the Scottish band who had reappeared in their lives from nowhere – as was Harry, although the lyrics didn't really register until the second verse and then he thought he would never hear anything more lovely or apt to his life as it now was.
"But you came to me like the ways of children,
simple as breathing, easy as air.
Now the years hold no fears, like the wind they pass over.
Loved, forgiven, washed, saved.
Every river I try to cross, every hill I try to climb,
every ocean I try to swim, every road I try to find.
All the ways of my life, I'd rather be with you.
There's no way without you."
Never a truer word spoken. Or sung. For all her brilliance, the woman in his arms had indeed come to him, simple and easy, accepting him for what he was and wanting nothing more from him than what he was capable of giving, and suddenly he could see a future that was no longer terrifying in its emptiness and loneliness. Whether she got one of these jobs now or not he didn't care; here or a world away, he would be with her. If she wanted him. He nuzzled her ear; sensing his mood, she turned her head to face him and he kissed her, decorous but very loving. Before she could ask what was on his mind he said,
"How long before I can follow you home? To Canberra?"
She lifted a hand to his cheek.
"As soon as you want, my love, unless you would like to leave it a few weeks to see if I hear about these jobs. That way at least you'll know whether you're looking at moving over long term or if you're coming to help me pack."
Well, at least she was still being positive... He kissed her again as the music finished.
"That's probably a good idea. We'll leave it until next month, then – maybe Easter?"
She grinned at him as the song finished.
"That would be good. I'll even play the Bunny and lay on the chocolate for you, assuming I can avoid eating it first!"
He squeezed her tight and was going to kiss her again when a buzz of activity near the door caught their attention.
"Looks like the happy couple are leaving. We'd better go and do our duty, then we can follow them and go home."
They joined everyone to farewell Malcolm and Angharad then stayed around talking to Tom and Christine for a little longer before all four of them took their departure. When they got home they decamped straight to the bedroom – it was getting late and, as it was their last night sharing a bed for the immediate future, neither had any desire to delay any more. Shoes came off straight away, then Hope headed for the bathroom to remove her makeup. Re-emerging ten minutes later she found Harry stripped to his briefs and in the process of putting away the beautiful tie and cufflinks. Giving a low wolf-whistle she said,
"Nice bottom!" and sashayed over to join him, running her hands over his glutes as she pulled him to her for an embrace.
"You're still dressed, woman!"
"Well if you object you'd better do something about it then, hadn't you?"
The next day was their last, as she was flying home that night. It went depressingly quickly, chewed up mostly by mundane tasks. No matter how much they ignored it, the time approached all too rapidly until finally they could put it off no longer and departed for the airport. It took an age to check in, leaving little time afterwards but they dredged every last second until she absolutely had to leave. The departure was swift but did nothing to assuage the pain they both felt. She promised to send him a text when she got home and was then gone, leaving him feeling totally bereft. As was she.
Harry felt the greyness start to descend as he walked back out to the carpark but refused to succumb this time; it would only be a few weeks before they would see each other again, one way or the other. The drive home was silent, as was the house when he got there. Silent and oddly chilly, as it had always been, until the last three weeks. God, how was he going to stand it again? He couldn't believe how intensely he was missing her already.
Going to bed crossed his mind but he knew he wouldn't sleep so retired to the sitting room with a glass and the bottle of Ardbeg he had hardly touched since he had brought Hope home. By the time he did drag himself back upstairs to his empty bed, hours later, she was half way across Europe and having her own difficulty getting to sleep, not just due to the uncomfortableness of the seat but because she was letting her mind wander in directions it never did. Towards the future and what it might hold.
The following 24 hours dragged interminably for both of them. Hope had no choice, stuck in an aluminium tube at 41,000' for most of the time. Despite going to bed so late, and more than half cut, Harry had still taken ages to sleep and so, uncharacteristically, woke late and slightly hung-over on the Sunday morning to find himself sleeping on her side of the bed, breathing in the last notes of her rapidly fading scent from the pillow. Finally dragging himself up and into the bathroom he was insensibly cheered to see her pair of black stockings from the wedding tossed onto the chair next to the door. The end of that particular evening was a memory that would bear revisiting a few times, he thought, smiling softly as he gently stroked the silky fabric. And look forward to repeating, on the other side of the globe...
It was mid-afternoon and he was about to head out for a walk (anything, to get out of the echoing emptiness) when there was a knock at the door. Totally baffled, he checked the monitor to see his daughter outside. Flinging the door open he said,
"Catherine! Hello, love, come in!" and wrapped her in a bear hug before pulling her inside and closing the door behind them.
"Hello, Dad." She kissed him on both cheeks and stood back to examine him. This was the first chance she had had to catch up with him since she had returned from her extended honeymoon in early February; he had been off at some meeting for a week soon after she returned and then, later, had unaccountably disappeared when she had dropped around a couple of times over the past two weeks. Now, she realised, he was looking even better than he had at her wedding, with more colour in his cheeks and had even put on weight, no longer looking quite so gaunt. He was leading her back to the kitchen and asking something about what sort of coffee she wanted...
"What do you mean, what sort of coffee? Since when have you become a barista, Dad?"
He gave her the sort of sunny smile that had been so rare for the past – many – years as they walked into the room.
"It's not me, it's a machine, although I've got rather good at twiddling the appropriate dials. So what would you like? Espresso, cappucino, latte? Long black? Macchiato? Or would you prefer tea?"
Catherine laughed as she took in the rather large coffee machine sitting on the bench top. That hadn't been there last time she had been here, before Christmas... (Hope had bought it, declaring most English coffee to be dishwater that she couldn't possibly drink.)
"Cappucino would be nice, thank you."
She moved to the kitchen table, the slight hesitation in her walk reminding him again of how close he had come to losing her in Beirut not so many years ago, and sat down to watch him, indeed, expertly produce their drinks while continuing to wonder what had happened. Clearly something good. They continued to talk for another fifteen minutes and she still couldn't quite believe the transformation: this was the father she had barely seen for the last ten or fifteen years as the work had slowly devoured him and then he had been nearly finished off by what had happened to the woman he had been going to marry.
She had been terrified of losing him completely when he had turned up that night on her doorstep and most of the following eighteen months had been akin to a nightmare, although it had made her realise even more how much of an idiot she had been, automatically taking her mother's side and pushing him away for years. They had been well on the way to repairing their relationship when everything at his work blew up and then he had lost Ruth, in the aftermath of which she had faced the thought that she might never fully get him back again, the grief had been so intense. But now, incredibly, here he was, the old twinkle in his eye and the funny, cutting conversation. She couldn't believe it.
When the coffee was finished he picked their cups up and took them to the sink to wash, asking,
"So what brings you around here anyway? Just visiting your old dad or something else? How's Aron, by the way?"
"He's fine. Tied up filming an advertisement, believe it or not. The things you have to do to make money!" She stood up and joined him at the sink, kissing him on the cheek and slipping an arm around his waist. "I've tried catching you a couple of times in the last few weeks but you were never home. I just wanted to see how you are but clearly the answer is very good." Letting him go she added, "And to ask you what you're doing for Easter? Do you want to come over for lunch on Easter Sunday?"
He smiled at her and leaned back against the bench.
"I am very well now, thank you. Easter won't be able to happen this year, though, I won't be back by then."
'Won't be back?' A silence, companionable, fell between them until she succumbed to temptation, as he knew she would – she had never been much good at exercising patience. Putting her hand on his arm she asked,
"Won't be back from where? Dad, what's going on? You're happier than I can almost ever remember seeing you so something's obviously happened. Are you going to tell me what?"
His smile was gentle this time. No point hiding things, that didn't fit his post-Ruth world.
"I'm going to be in Australia for Easter this year, Catherine."
She did a genuine double-take that was a delight to behold.
"You'll be where? What are you going there for? Chasing the cricket or something?"
Her huge dark eyes, so much like his own and about the only thing, apart from her colouring, that she had directly inherited from him, stared back at him in disbelief. He ruffled her blonde curls, also so much like his now that she had given up the battle to keep her pale gold locks straight, and explained, despite the sudden on-set of nerves.
"No cricket, that's finished for the year over there. Rather more personal. I've met someone, Catherine. If you had dropped by yesterday you would have met her but she had to fly home last night. You will get another chance in a few month's time, though. I'm going over there in a couple of weeks to, hopefully, help her pack up and move back over here for a few years. After that, who knows? Right now, all I know is that I've been given another chance to be happy and I don't want to risk screwing it up this time. I might have spent most of my life being a bastard to everyone close to me, including you and your brother, and although I may deserve it I don't want to grow old alone. Hope, who knows and understands it all, accepts me as I am and we make each other happy, so..."
It had all come out in a rush and, although she could see that the new relationship had done wonders she wasn't quite sure whether she was up to talking about it just yet so she latched on to the later part of his discourse.
"You're not a bastard, Dad. The job is but you're not. I'm old enough to understand that now. In fact, the older I'm getting the more I think – I hope – I'm starting to understand you and respect you, for what you do and have done." She saw the surprise in his face but the surprise was tempered by a little disbelief so she thought she owed him some honestly as well. "Yes, you were hard but you could also a brilliant dad when you were around, it's just—
He sighed, knowing the truth and hating it.
"I was never around, or not enough. I know, and it's something I bitterly regret."
She smiled – his smile! – and said gently,
"Don't. It was the job. I was just too young to even begin to comprehend and too wrapped up in myself. I was such a self-centred brat and it's only the last few years, since I've been doing my job, that I've started to think about yours and what you've achieved. As well as, more crucially, what you've had to give up."
Harry pulled her into his arms for a hug.
"You were a brat at times although nowhere near as bad as your brother. And selfishness is the nature of childhood so it's hardly your fault but you've grown out of it, unlike him."
"Looking back I can see that we gave you plenty of reasons to be tough on us! Graham is getting better, though, I think he finally is starting to grow up. You must have seen that recently – university is doing him the world of good."
He nodded in agreement, secretly delighted to be able to do so.
"He has, now he has something to focus his energies on, something that gives him a rigorous structure and guidelines to follow. The army provided that for me and science is providing it for him. We owe that husband of yours a debt of gratitude for stoking the flames of your brother's interest in the marine world. Now I see life a little differently I believe I might be startng to understand some of his past actions, even if I don't condone them. You know, I vowed not to be as hard on you as your grandfather was on me and your uncle but then it just happened, for which I am eternally sorry."
He had never admitted to her that he knew she had called him a bully when discussing him with Danny Hunter all those years ago but a little bit of him had died inside that day and he still burned with internalised shame every time he thought about it. This was about as close as he had ever skated around it, half fishing, half not wanting to know if she still felt the same. Today, she surprised him with her response.
"Don't be. Kids need strong rules and it was our choice to react the way we did, and do, remember."
He gazed at her, wondering when she had become this objective, level-headed adult, but said nothing, until eventually she asked, returning to the other subject,
"Is that her name? Hope? Are you going to tell me any more?"
The shock had dissipated enough by now and curiosity was beginning to take over. After the divorce she had taken no positive interest in her father or his life, too infuriated with what she saw as meddling and interference, until after he had moved heaven and earth to save her life in Beirut. She had started to grow up after that and had begun to re-establish their relationship as adults but that hadn't extended as far as information on his other relationships. To be honest, she didn't think he had other relationships, she was still inclined to believe that he was married to his job. Then the truth had come out in the early hours of a cold, dark day...
Equally as unsure and just a little uncomfortable but determined to press on Harry took a breath and responsed.
"If you would like. There are even photos, if you would like to see. We would have been in Italy when you dropped by last time; Hope is very interested in the history of ancient Rome..."
Catherine was quietly glad to find out that this woman was much closer to her father's age than Ruth had been. Deeply surprised when she had found out about that 17 year age difference, she had wondered since about the wisdom of it, although there was no doubt that her father had loved the woman, for all that the relationship had never seemed to provide him with much joy, or nothing like he apparently had now, if his degree of happiness was any guide.
She had also wondered how long it would have lasted with Ruth, between the age difference and whatever the issues were that had stopped them getting together for so long (to say nothing of her own discomfort at the thought that she would have ended up with a step-mother who was only nine years her senior), whereas Hope was clearly the same generation and with the same experience of the world as her dad and, apparently, much more straight-forward. All she could do was wish him well.
It was over an hour later that Catherine's phone chirped, an hour when they had held one of the longest and most honest, open conversations they had ever had, approaching each other as independent adults for almost the first time, learning a surprising amount about those independent adults as a result. Reluctantly standing up she had said,
"It's Aron, he's finished and at home wondering where I am. We're supposed to be meeting up with some potential buyers tonight for this documentary we're doing on the follow up to the Arab Spring so I'd better get going."
As they walked to the front door her father said, almost sotto voce, remembering Lebanon,
"I wish you would find some other subject to work on so you didn't spend all your time in war zones."
She grinned at him and elbowed him in the ribs.
"Coming from you? Bit rich, Papa, bit rich!"
"I haven't been in an actual war zone since I left the Army!" he objected reasonably. Technically it was true although in reality it certainly wasn't and he knew she knew it wasn't, her next words proving it.
"So eastern Europe during the Cold War and now the home-grown variety masquerading as terrorism doesn't count? I'm not buying that, Dad, I know how many times you've ended up either in serious danger or hospital! Well, I know the ones you've told me about. And I've seen the scars."
"Touche," he smiled as they reached the door. "At least you've got Aron along these days – not to protect you, necessarily, before you flare up, but it's always safer if there's more than one of you. Being a New Zealander is actually a help in some of these places, these days. They're seen as being impartial, or at least less involved, than we are."
"I know." She kissed him on the cheek. "If it's any consolation our next project is on the Great Pacific Garbage Patch – that disgusting floating rubbish dump of our own creation inside the North Pacific Gyre – and it's effects on marine life, the ocean and us. Aron's been asking me for ages to work with him on it and the more he's showing me the angrier I'm getting. We are such an appallingly destructive species..." He would well believe that, the sparks were firing in her dark eyes already but she took a deep breath and discarded them, instead smiling slightly ruefully. "We seem to be developing a taste for Antipodeans in this family! Aron, Hope, even Graham is heading to Townsville for his uni research project in a few months... I'm happy for you, Dad. You deserve it."
He shrugged slightly, eyes down-cast.
"I'm still not convinced about that myself but everyone else seems to think so."
"It's because it's true. And I'm so sorry I misjudged you for years, especially after you and Mum split up. We've missed so much."
He sighed.
"Yes, well, you could only judge from where you were sitting and I know what it probably looked like from there, especially at the age you were."
There was a short silence as they stood before the door before she said, quietly,
"I know what really happened, you know. It all came out a few years ago." He said nothing, just looked at her expressionlessly. What saga had Jane come up with this time? "Aunt Sarah and Uncle Don came over for Mum's birthday. They all got, well, pissed, to put it politely. Your name got mentioned and Mum started bagging you, enthusiastically supported as usual by my tosser of a step-father. Then Aunt Sarah spat the dummy and it all came out. How you actually weren't the first one to look elsewhere. Mum was. From fairly early on, after my big brother died, and repeatedly, until you walked. She admitted it, eventually, too, it's a bit hard to deny it when it's your own sister spilling the beans." Christ, she had actually told the truth for once in her life, then... "Is it true you tried to get custody of us?"
He nodded and sighed again.
"Yes, but was told in no uncertain terms by the solicitors that I had almost no hope. Fathers never did, those days, let alone one with my job, temper and recent history with Robin bloody Tindall. I didn't give up the fight but that's exactly how it went in the end. Sorry, darling, things might have been different for all of us if I'd succeeded."
He thought he would keep to himself how much it had nearly killed him to lose them after the premature loss of the first boy and on top of having to walk away to protect the son he had thought was his behind the Iron Curtain. She didn't need to know any of that, she could work out the former and the latter had turned out to be a lie anyway.
They hugged each other and when she looked up Catherine had a sheen of tears in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Dad, I'm so, so sorry. For everything. It took years and then, just when we were getting better, I thought we'd lost you again that night you turned up at the door and I was so scared... Anyway, I'll be doing my best to make it up to you for the rest of my life and I'm continuing to push it through my brother's thick skull as well. It's getting easier now he's been clean for so long but he's still so stubborn sometimes."
Don't know where he gets that trait from...
"It's okay, love. A new start for all of us, hey?" He chucked her under the chin, the way he used to do when she was little. "Don't cry. Life's too short. And you'll start me off, you know what I'm like these days, start weeping at the drop of a hat! Go home and enjoy that husband of yours instead."
She gave a slightly watery smile.
"I will but on the condition that you bring Hope over as soon as you can."
"Agreed." He leaned forward and murmured conspiratorially, "Just as long as we make sure it's at a time when any of their national sporting teams aren't at war with each other or ours or there could be blood on the floor. Now go, I don't need an irate son-in-law bailing me up on the doorstep at my age."
There was still a bit of light in the sky after she left, still gurgling with laughter, so he went for his walk, coming back via his local for dinner. Eventually realising that resistance was futile he ended up on the internet, glass of scotch to hand, at 10.00pm, looking at airfares to Canberra. Who was he trying to kid? He wasn't going to be able to wait until Easter...
Half an hour later it was the turn of his phone to chirp. Picking it up his heart melted into a gooey mess when he saw who it was from.
'Finally home. And still stinking hot!'
Jesus, that was a long trip... Without even thinking about it he dialled her number and waited.
In Canberra, Hope had just arrived home when she sent him the text. 8.00 am and it was already over thirty degrees although at least there was no smoke in the air. Yet. Turning on the aircon she was heading for the fridge to look for something cool to drink when the mobile started ringing.
"Oh for Christ's sake I've only just got home..." Picking it up, the scowl turned to a soft smile as she saw the caller ID.
"Hello."
Her voice was low, soft and warm in his ear, the single word sending a frisson down his spine.
"Hello." His own voice was equally as soft and warm in her ear, its deep tones like velvet. Or molten chocolate, she decided. "That's a bloody long flight if you've only just got there."
She laughed wearily.
"It is that. Consider yourself warned. What are you doing still up at this hour on Sunday night, anyway?"
"On the internet looking at flights to Australia, oddly enough! Just starting to do some planning... I suppose it's tomorrow morning over there?"
"Correct. And thirty bloody degrees already. God knows what it will be by lunchtime..."
They kept chatting for another ten minutes before she sent him to bed and went back to her unpacking. Well, she had thought she'd sent him to bed but he didn't get there for the better part of another hour. After he'd booked his flights. For the following Friday-week, returning two months later. He wouldn't tell her, he decided, he might just turn up on her doorstep and see what reaction he got...
It didn't seem so bad to be going to bed alone, now he knew it was only going to be for a couple of weeks. Waking up in the morning would prove to be the worst time of the day for him: he would inevitably reach for her while he was still mostly asleep, wanting to cuddle, then just as inevitably wake up completely when she wasn't there, spending the rest of the time until the alarm went off staring at the ceiling, wondering what she was doing and resigning himself to another day without her company.
Returning to the Grid the next morning was a curiously dispiriting experience. Continuing the old habit of arriving long before everyone else, he was buried in sorting out what needed doing and what didn't when the rest of the team started to drift in and wave their hello's. It was Waleed who first realised that, for the first time in 21 months, all the blinds in Harry's office were open. While he was in there. And they all noticed the sapphire blue tie, relaxed demeanour and, of all things, an incipient tan when they piled into the meeting room. It was Calum who actually said something, while they were awaiting the last couple of stragglers.
"Jesus, Harry, where have you been to get a tan at this time of the year?"
The response was as dry as a desert wind but only mildly ironic.
"Thank you, Calum, for that warm 'welcome back' and Rome was very nice, with the possible exception of the two muggers who pulled knives on us in an alleyway one evening." Everyone turned to look at him, eyes wide, especially the trio who had been on the coast that day and were now caught between horror at the thought of him being put in that position again and, knowing what he was capable of, terror at the prospect of his reaction under those circumstances. He smiled gently. "Oh, don't worry, the one I dealt with only ended up unconscious with a broken jaw and I believe the other, who made the mistake of taking on Hope, probably has a knee-joint that is smashed beyond repair. Petty crims really should learn how to identify members of the international security services before they decide to take us on, for their own protection. Now, can we get on with this meeting?" Stifled laughs rippled around the table before they plunged into the business of the day.
He didn't get a chance to stop again until mid-afternoon, after the usual round of meetings, politicians and crises (real and imagined) were dealt with. Leaning back in his chair for a breather he stared absently through the windows opposite, not really seeing the activity out on the main floor and barely registering that the sight of Waleed seated at Ruth's old work station was causing him only muted regret these days. A few warm memories came back, making him smile, but, for the first time, no ghosts. Hope's "process of absorption" must be nearly complete, then, the grief now part of his soul, although his planned trip on Sunday would test that particular hypothesis... His inbox chimed and, as he read the missive from the Home Secretary, he suddenly realised, with absolute clarity, that he really was over a large part of this job. He would have preferred to be back out in the field than in here, dealing with politicians, bureaucrats and the assorted other detritus of society but, even more, he just wanted to turn his back on all of it. Forever. Depending on what happened in Canberra he might even pull the plug while he was over there.
Sunday came all too quickly and he found himself standing before that subtle, elegant, polished larvikite monument, shivering slightly in a boisterous, chilly wind under suitably grey skies. No birds this time and only glimpses of blue sky through rents in the clouds. It still bloody hurt. Far more than he was expecting but, oddly, nowhere near as intensely. It was a more subdued, rounded and infinitely older pain now, one that he could recognise and embrace but, crucially, also see beyond. Consuming, but no longer all-consuming, and no longer totally blinding... Maybe he was, finally, getting used to it, as he had eventually got used to all those who came before. Permanently changed by each one and never forgetting any of them but going on, ever on.
He continued to stand before the grave, silent, for a few more minutes, his mind roaming back over the previous decade and the two, contrasting periods that had been dominated by Ruth. The first silly, happy years and then the later, tumultuous and painful period when all they seemed to do was hurt each other, apart from those final few, better moments book-ending the mess that was the Gavrik family. He felt the tears return but this time they were for all the missed and wasted opportunities and the unnecessary anguish they had caused each other when it should have all been so easy. Shaking his head briefly and blinking the tears away he murmured,
"Oh Ruth, my love, why could you never trust me?"
Pointless. He knew he could get no answer but he would never stop wondering. Sighing, he set about tidying up – not that it was really needed – while very quietly talking to her inside his head. Mostly updates on the office gossip but also a few tales from the world of politics and Malcolm's lovely news, of course. Eventually, though, everything was tidy and the new flowers were in place. He perched on the edge of the grave and sighed again, murmuring out loud, as though it would matter.
"I won't be here for your birthday or the anniversary this year, which is why I'm here now. I'm going away for a couple of months." He fell silent for a moment, feeling silly for talking but unable to stop, despite knowing that no-one was listening, least of all Ruth. "I've met someone, Ruth. She's one of us, so I've told her about everything, including you and, luckily for me, she understands. All of it, every nuance. As you never could and as I never expected you to be able to. She lost her husband before you and I had even met and in circumstances that were possibly worse than us so she gets that, too. She's of my generation, not yours, which makes us both Cold War dinosaurs, I suppose, and I believe we love each other, deeply, although that's one thing that still hasn't been said." He scrubbed his face. "She's not you, and never will be, but then I will never replace her husband, either, and I accept that. But we make each other so very happy and I'm not going to let this chance go by without acting on it. Unlike us, who let every opportunity pass until it was too late. Twice. Malcolm says you would understand and I know, in my heart, you would. Or at least I hope so."
He stopped talking again and sat, staring at her name and wondering what he was doing, talking to a silent grave. Almost like he was waiting for something. Another hole was ripped in the cloud cover and a shaft of sunlight momentarily lit up the area around the grave, shining briefly off the headstone, the schiller in the large crystals sparkling as blue as her eyes and reflecting back into his. Then it was gone. Although he knew it was pure coincidence the hair still stood up on the back of his neck for a second. If he believed in that sort of thing he would have thought it was Ruth, giving her blessing, but that, of course, was patently silly.
Shaking his head at the ridiculous thought – just as on all his previous visits he could sense nothing because there was nothing there; if Ruth was anywhere, she was on the Grid and even there she had faded away almost completely, as time had its way of doing – he stood up, poured the libation and bid her farewell. For the moment. There was a smile in his voice and a faint trace of one on his face as he spoke.
"There is no way that was you – far too much of a cliche and if there is one thing you were not, my dear, it was a cliche. I'll be back. You'll not be rid of me that easily." He knew Hope still visited Wynne once or twice a year so he could see no reason why he shouldn't do the same for Ruth – he would not leave her here, alone and untended, any more than Hope could leave Wynne. As he walked away the sun came out again, for longer this time, and the missing bird returned and started singing but, too full of thoughts and memories, he didn't notice.
Every River. Written by Rory and Calum MacDonald, performed by Runrig.