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What am I to say, though? Sometimes I was happy here, and sometimes not, and often I was afraid of him, and still am, although I see now this was as unnecessary as my mother’s fear of fate. What good would it do to say that? I couldn’t explain, nor he accept.

“I’ve just lived here long enough, that’s all. It’s got nothing to do with the school.”

And this, like everything else, is both true and false.

The teacher’s room is empty. All the gruelling good-byes have been said to the others. I told Calla I would wait here to see her. I feel nothing at leaving. There have been, lately, a few days when I feel nothing of any description, nothing at all. This may not be good, but it’s restful.

“Oh – hello, Rachel. You did wait.”

“Yes. I said I would.”

“I know, but I thought you might be in a rush, what with packing and everything.”

We stand facing one another. We’re stalling. We don’t know what to say. Then I see she has decided.

“Rachel, maybe this is uncalled for, but I – well, I’m sorry that things weren’t different for you. That it wasn’t what you thought, when you came to my place that day.”

“Oh – that.” Now I’m forced back into the total pain, as one is when somebody sympathizes with a death you had begun not to think about every moment. Why couldn’t she have kept quiet about it? But I see she couldn’t, not now, this once.

“Yes,” she says. “I only wanted to let you know –”

“You must have thought –” My voice rises like a speeded-up record, “you must have thought I was a fool. As, of course, I was.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But heavens, child, that’s the least of your worries.”

This really is so. It’s the least of my worries. What is so terrible about fools? I should be honoured to be of that company.

“Calla –” Now, at last, it had to be expressed and offered some acknowledgement, because the truth is that she loves me.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry things weren’t different for you. I mean, that I wasn’t different.”

“Oh – that,” she says.

She glances away, then looks again at me, meets my eyes. Calla, pillar of tabernacles, speaker in tongues, mother of canaries and budgerigars.

“Not to worry,” Calla says. “I’ll survive.”

The last time I was in the Japonica Funeral Chapel was that night I came down here late and talked to Hector. Everything looks just the same, but now it does not seem to matter much that my father’s presence has been gone from here for a long time. I can’t know what he was like. He isn’t here to say, and even if he were, he wouldn’t say, any more than Mother does. Whatever it was that happened with either of them, their mysteries remain theirs. I don’t need to know. It isn’t necessary. I have my own.

“I’m glad you dropped in, Rachel,” Hector says. “Can I press you to a drink? One for the road, you might say.”

Rachel Cameron, taking to the road. I have to laugh at this.

“All right. It’ll be a good omen, maybe.”

Hector dashes from cupboard to sink with bottle and glasses.

“You wouldn’t prefer sherry, Rachel?”

“No, thanks. Rye and water is fine.”

“I always keep a small supply of sherry on hand,” he confides, “although I wouldn’t touch the filthy stuff myself. Too sweet for me – I’m sweet enough already, ha ha. But sometimes one of the bereaved needs a little shot to steady him. Ladies often feel it wouldn’t be very nice to drink rye at such a time, but a snort of sherry is usually acceptable.”

“I see. I think you’re very considerate, Hector.”

“Really? Well, it’s music to my ears to hear you say so. Actually, I only do it for business.”

“Remember when I came down here that night?”

“Yes, certainly. I should say so.”

“I thought afterwards about what you said.”

“Don’t cast it up at me, that’s all I ask. What did I say?”

“About my father.”

“Oh yeh, that. Well, I could’ve been wrong, Rachel. I hope you never took it to heart too much.”

“No, I don’t think you were wrong. He probably did do what he wanted most, even though he might not have known it. But maybe what came of it was something he hadn’t bargained for. That’s always a possibility,