Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [2]
“Priest,” her father demanded. “Not Vicar.”
“Herbert,” the doctor said soothingly, “let me lift you while Elly gives you a little water—”
The dark, pleading eyes shifted to the doctor’s face. “I want a priest,” the dying man said very clearly this time, refusing to be distracted.
The bedroom door opened and Dick was ushering in the Vicar. “I met him on his way here,” he told them. “Coming to see if we had need of him.”
Mr. Sims was taller than Dick, thinner, and not much older. “I’ve been sitting with Mrs. Quarles, and thought it best to call on you before going home,” the Vicar explained. Herbert Baker had taken all day to die. Most of the town knew the end was near, a matter of hours at best. Sims had stopped in twice before.
Sims reached out to touch Elly’s arm, saying easily, “Ellen, do you think you could find a cup of tea for us? We could use the warmth on such a wet night.”
She flushed shyly. “Tea? Oh—yes. I’ve just to put the kettle on.”
Smoothing the blanket over her father, she got up, leaving the room with reluctance. Sims took the place on the bed that she’d vacated and squarely met the intent eyes of the old man. “You’ve had a good life, Herbert Baker. You were married to a fine woman—a caring wife and a devoted mother. Both your sons survived the War, and have work. Elly is a lovely girl. God has been kind to you.”
“Thank’ee, Vicar, and I’ll have you say a prayer for me after the priest goes!”
The Vicar looked up at Martin, then said, “Dr. Stephenson?”
“He’s been asking for a priest. Just now, before you came in. I don’t know why—”
Dick said, “Father James is the only priest in Osterley. He’s a Catholic—”
“That’s right—he’s the one!” Herbert Baker said with more will than strength. Something in the depths of his eyes flared with hope.
Martin said, “If that’s what he wants, humor him, then. Dick, go and see if Father James will come here.” His brother hesitated, glancing uneasily at the Vicar, as if he’d just been asked to commit heresy. But Mr. Sims nodded encouragement, and Dick went out the door.
Martin said, “You’ll stay?” to Sims.
From the bed came the single word “Stay.” The lined face was exhausted, as if speaking was a greater effort than he could manage.
Sims replied, “I’ll go to the kitchen, then. From the look of her, Ellen is more in need of that tea than I am!” Rising from the bed, he added gently, “I’ll be within call, Herbert. Never fear.” His smile was reassuring.
Herbert nodded; his eyes closed. The wind had dropped again and on the roof overhead the rain seemed to fall softly now, with a summer patter.
Dr. Stephenson said quietly to Sims, “He’s sound enough in his mind. But dying men often have whims like this. Best to humor him!”
“Yes. I knew a wounded man in the War who wanted to be buried with his little dog. Only he didn’t have a dog. But when they came to bury him, his arms were folded across his chest as if he’d held one as he died. Strange comfort, but who are we to question?”
The Vicar went out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. There were voices on the stairs. Sims speaking to Ellen. And then they went down again together.
The room was silent. Martin watched his father for a time, and then said anxiously to Stephenson, “It’ll be an easy passing?”
“As easy as any. His heart will stop. And his breathing will follow. He will be asleep long before that. I didn’t expect him to wake at all. I thought he’d reached the last stage.”
Herbert, roused by their voices, said, “Is the priest here, then?”
“Not yet, Papa,” Martin answered, lowering himself to sit on the bed. “Dick’s gone to fetch him.” He gripped his father’s hands, unable to say anything, a plain man with few graces. But the warmth of his fingers seemed to give a measure of peace to his dying father. Martin cleared his throat hoarsely, warmed in his turn.
The silence lengthened. After nearly a quarter of an hour, Dick came in, bringing a short and balding man of middle age in his wake. Father James greeted Stephenson with a nod and came to shake Martin’s