A Bit of Earth Read Online Free Page A
Author: Rebecca Smith
from Abba. On the last night of their stay Guyâs mother cornered him in the kitchen.
âBut will you and Felix be all right? Would you like to come and stay with us? Maybe you could have a yearâs sabbatical? Compassionate leave? Iâm sure your department would be very flexible.â
âUm,â said Guy. He didnât want to say that actually he more or less
was
the department, and that if he left there probably wouldnât be anything to come back to. âFelix isstarting school in September. Itâs all organised.â Pictures of Susannah smiling as Felix modelled his new school sweatshirt flashed into his head. She had made him a PE bag already. âI guess for, um, continuity for Felix, it would be better to stay here.â Even as he said this he thought, continuity, how could this be continuity? And what would be so good about continuity here anyway?
âWell, let me stay then.â
âMum, itâs really kind of you, but weâll be all right.â He knew that they had a holiday in Australia booked, that they had a whole life on the other side of the world. His mum had a part-time job as a museum guide, which she loved. His dad would be worrying about the garden. Their dogs were in kennels.
âWell, you must promise to come and visit us.â
âOK,â said Guy, but he really couldnât see the point.
âI donât want Felix growing up not knowing his grandparents.â
âNo. Of course not.â
âThere is email,â said his dad coming in, hoping for a little something savoury on crackers.
Jenny joined them.
âYou could get a web cam rigged up.â
âGood idea,â said Guy. He imagined the pictures it would send: himself and Felix standing there against the backdrop of his dingy study, opening and shutting their mouths but not being able to think of anything to say.
One of the things that Guy did manage to keep up after Susannah died was the bedtime story. It had always beenone of his duties, and was often then, at fifteen or so minutes, the longest time that he spent alone with Felix each day. Felix chose the book, and there were many to pick from. Books for Felix had been one of Susannahâs few extravagances, they were one of her priorities. Susannah and Felix had made regular trips to the local library, something that Guy would find out, to his cost in fines, some weeks after she died. There had been no stories on those first few days (those days that Guy could now barely recall, that had passed in a fug of tears and disbelief, and noisy, uncomprehending, half-strangled grief). But then, on what must have been the fourth or fifth day, sometime before the funeral anyway, Felix had reappeared in his pyjamas, which were stained with cereal and who knew what else. He was holding a book. It was ten oâclock. Guy hadnât seen Felix for several hours. It was a âbiggest, tallest, fastestâ book of facts about animals.
âPlease, Dad. We havenât had any bedtime books.â
It wouldnât have been possible for Felix to choose something where emotions were flatter and more absent. Eventually Felix fell asleep and Guy carried him up to bed, then lay down with him and slept too.
A day or so later a health visitor called with some leaflets for Guy and an illustrated book for them, as she said, to share. It was called
When a Parent Dies.
Guy couldnât bring himself to look at any of it, he couldnât even open it. Just the cover was bad enough. He remembered how Susannah had once referred to those sorts of colours as âbright pastelsâ. The bedtime books continued, and they were one of the closest connections that they had each day. Usually it was some non-fiction. Guy wondered if Felix was making deliberatelytactful choices; unlikely, he knew, in a four-year-old. If it wasnât animals, vehicles or dinosaurs, it might be
Thomas the Tank Engine.
Suddenly Guy was grateful to
âBut will you and Felix be all right? Would you like to come and stay with us? Maybe you could have a yearâs sabbatical? Compassionate leave? Iâm sure your department would be very flexible.â
âUm,â said Guy. He didnât want to say that actually he more or less
was
the department, and that if he left there probably wouldnât be anything to come back to. âFelix isstarting school in September. Itâs all organised.â Pictures of Susannah smiling as Felix modelled his new school sweatshirt flashed into his head. She had made him a PE bag already. âI guess for, um, continuity for Felix, it would be better to stay here.â Even as he said this he thought, continuity, how could this be continuity? And what would be so good about continuity here anyway?
âWell, let me stay then.â
âMum, itâs really kind of you, but weâll be all right.â He knew that they had a holiday in Australia booked, that they had a whole life on the other side of the world. His mum had a part-time job as a museum guide, which she loved. His dad would be worrying about the garden. Their dogs were in kennels.
âWell, you must promise to come and visit us.â
âOK,â said Guy, but he really couldnât see the point.
âI donât want Felix growing up not knowing his grandparents.â
âNo. Of course not.â
âThere is email,â said his dad coming in, hoping for a little something savoury on crackers.
Jenny joined them.
âYou could get a web cam rigged up.â
âGood idea,â said Guy. He imagined the pictures it would send: himself and Felix standing there against the backdrop of his dingy study, opening and shutting their mouths but not being able to think of anything to say.
One of the things that Guy did manage to keep up after Susannah died was the bedtime story. It had always beenone of his duties, and was often then, at fifteen or so minutes, the longest time that he spent alone with Felix each day. Felix chose the book, and there were many to pick from. Books for Felix had been one of Susannahâs few extravagances, they were one of her priorities. Susannah and Felix had made regular trips to the local library, something that Guy would find out, to his cost in fines, some weeks after she died. There had been no stories on those first few days (those days that Guy could now barely recall, that had passed in a fug of tears and disbelief, and noisy, uncomprehending, half-strangled grief). But then, on what must have been the fourth or fifth day, sometime before the funeral anyway, Felix had reappeared in his pyjamas, which were stained with cereal and who knew what else. He was holding a book. It was ten oâclock. Guy hadnât seen Felix for several hours. It was a âbiggest, tallest, fastestâ book of facts about animals.
âPlease, Dad. We havenât had any bedtime books.â
It wouldnât have been possible for Felix to choose something where emotions were flatter and more absent. Eventually Felix fell asleep and Guy carried him up to bed, then lay down with him and slept too.
A day or so later a health visitor called with some leaflets for Guy and an illustrated book for them, as she said, to share. It was called
When a Parent Dies.
Guy couldnât bring himself to look at any of it, he couldnât even open it. Just the cover was bad enough. He remembered how Susannah had once referred to those sorts of colours as âbright pastelsâ. The bedtime books continued, and they were one of the closest connections that they had each day. Usually it was some non-fiction. Guy wondered if Felix was making deliberatelytactful choices; unlikely, he knew, in a four-year-old. If it wasnât animals, vehicles or dinosaurs, it might be
Thomas the Tank Engine.
Suddenly Guy was grateful to
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