Alex Grecian - The Yard

Outside, the rain fell steady, but not hard. The bald man left the front door open and went to the middle of the street. He looked both ways, trying to decide where the boy might have gone. The rain beaded on his head and ran in rivulets down the back of his neck. Within minutes, the thin fabric of his nightshirt clung to his skin and his slippers had absorbed enough water to triple their weight.

He hunched his shoulders and shut his eyes, trying to imagine himself as a young boy in a strange neighborhood. He opened his eyes again and looked around. Rain clouds blotted out the moon. A carriage swept by, a gas lamp swinging back and forth from the pole next to the driver. The bald man’s gaze followed the carriage down the street and watched as it turned onto a broader lane where firefly clusters of streetlamps struggled to penetrate the gloom. The bald man’s street was completely dark, no lamps here, and the streets to the east were also residential, but to the west were more thoroughly traveled streets, and those were lit up with gas. He felt sure the boy would have been drawn to the light, dim as it was.

The bald man set himself on a westerly course and followed in the wake of the carriage.

Kingsley stared into the dying embers of the night’s fire, not focused on the coals or his surroundings. Outside, rain pattered against the roof. A small noise in the room woke him from his daze, and he slowly shook off his malaise and turned his head. Fiona was standing in the doorway watching him.

“How long have you been there?” he said.

“Not long. Do you feel all right, Father?”

He smiled and nodded. “Of course I do. Why aren’t you asleep, Plum?”

“I heard a noise. A carriage going by outside.”

Kingsley sniffed and glanced up at the clock on the mantel above the dead fire.

“It’s early yet. Or late. You should try to sleep a bit more.”

“I’m awake. Should I get you something? Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Have you slept yet?”

“You know, I don’t think I have,” Kingsley said.

Fiona padded across the room and sat on the arm of the chair. Kingsley put his hand on her back. He wiped his other hand across his face and tried to remember what he’d been thinking of. Fiona spoke as if she could read his thoughts.

“Were you thinking of Mother?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was.”

“I was thinking of her even before the carriage woke me.”

“You were dreaming, you mean.”

“Yes. We were all together at Hyde Park, gathered around the fountain. You know the one I mean, with the statue of the angel in it.”

“I think I know the one, but I’m not sure that statue’s meant to be an angel.”

“I think it is.”

“Fair enough.”

“You and Mother were holding hands, and Beatrice was there, too, home from school, I think.”

“We should visit her soon.”

“I’d like that.”

“Then we’ll do it.”

“Do you still dream about her?”

“Beatrice?”

He knew what she meant. She wasn’t talking about her sister.

“Mother.”

“Yes, Plum, I still dream about her. I suppose we always will.”

“Do you think she dreams of us?”

“No.”

“Not ever?”

“She doesn’t dream anymore.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I have seen countless dead people, I have cut into them and removed their organs and weighed their brains, and not one of the dead has ever told me anything that wasn’t concrete and physical. When people die, their minds no longer work. They can’t dream.”

“What about their souls?”

“I have never seen a soul nor found a repository for such a thing in any body I’ve examined. There is no soul.”

Fiona was quiet, and Kingsley realized he’d upset his daughter. He was too tired to be of any use to his still-grieving daughter. He rubbed his hand clumsily up and down her back. He wished he could offer her some comfort, some assurance that her mother lived on, but since he didn’t believe it himself, he had no way of convincing her. She wiped her eyes, but her hair had fallen over her face and Kingsley couldn’t see her.

“Well, I believe we all have souls,” she said, “and you just can’t see them.”

Kingsley nodded. He was afraid to contradict her.

“I believe my mother is in heaven and I will see her again someday.”

Kingsley smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I sincerely hope that day is a long way off,” he said.

“I mean that we’ll see her when we both die of old age, hundreds and hundreds of years from now.”

“It’s a pleasant thought, at least.”

“Maybe she’s looking at us right now. Maybe she’s smiling at us and making nice things happen for us.”

“That would be an excellent dream for you to have.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?”

They sat in companionable silence, staring at the embers in the fireplace, and eventually Fiona slid off the arm of the chair and into her father’s lap. He smoothed her hair away from her face and she shifted slightly, mumbled something unheard, and began to snore quietly.

Kingsley sat in the dark and watched the crackling remains of the fire until he fell asleep.

He didn’t dream about anything at all.

Walter Day laid his head on his wife’s pillow and closed his eyes. Beside him, Claire swept a lock of hair from her eyes and propped herself on one elbow, her other hand on her husband’s chest.

“Let me lie here a moment and I’ll return to my room,” Day said. “I should have stayed there. You need your sleep.”

“But your room is miles away from mine,” Claire said.

“Only down the hall.”

“That’s still too far. And I sleep too much as it is. I hardly see you anymore.”

“It’s this case.”

“I know that. I’m not complaining. What is the case, Walter?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“But I would love to hear about it.”

“It might upset you.”

“I’m no flower, you know.”

Day sighed. “I heard Percy Erwood still hasn’t married,” he said.

“Are you changing the subject, Mr Day?”

“You must have been the only woman for him.”

“I was never for him.”

She took her hand off Walter’s chest and moved away, staring in the dark direction of the ceiling.

“Why did you ever marry me and leave poor Percy in the lurch?” Day said.

“I declare,” she said. “You’re not going to worry about Percy Erwood for the rest of our long lives, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m worried about him.”

“If you had your way, Percy Erwood would come here right now and carry me away.”

“Right now?”

“In the morning, then.”

“I would rather he didn’t.”

“As would I.”

Day smacked his lips and mumbled something Claire couldn’t make out.

“What’s that, dear?” she said.

“I said that I still remember the moment I fell in love with you.”

“Was I there or was it just you and Percy Erwood deciding amongst yourselves who ought to win me?”

“It was in church. That’s the only place I ever saw you. No, that’s not true. I saw you often when we were small, passing in the street sometimes, playing with your friends, and once in the post office, but church was the only place I felt like we might be on equal ground.”

“And you remember a single Sunday?”

“You were wearing a yellow dress. And a bonnet.”

“You remember the color of the dress?”

“And you wore gloves that nearly reached your elbows.”

“And you liked me?”

“You were the best and prettiest girl I had ever seen, and I knew you would never marry me because I wasn’t good enough.”