Road Ends Read Online Free Page B

Years?”
    “I don’t know.”
    There was a long pause.
    Megan said, “Patrick, I’ve never been anywhere in my whole life. I’ve never been to a city.
Any
city. I want to
see
things.
Do
things. I’ve never done
anything
. I’ve never been
anywhere
.”
    Patrick shrugged. “Neither have I. Well, college in Sudbury.”
    “Don’t you want to?” Megan asked. “Don’t you want to see things? See other places?” Then she held her breath for fear he’d think she was asking him to come with her.
    “Sure, someday,” he said, and she let out her breath. “At the moment there are things I want more.” He smiled at her wryly. “A lot more.”
    “Yes, well,” Megan said.
    There was another pause.
    “England’s a hell of a long way, Meg.”
    “Yes. I know.”
    So many things weren’t being said but were nonetheless plain as day, chief amongst them that Patrick loved her and she did not love him, or at least not as much. The knowledge made her feel guilty, which in turn made her feel cross, because she had never led him on, never pretended to feel more than she felt. Maybe we’re just at different stages, she thought. He’s older, he’s been to college. He’s ready to settle down. I’ve been settled down my whole life. I’ve never been anything
but
settled down.
    “When are you leaving?” Patrick said.
    “The Thursday after next.”
    “
The Thursday after next
!”
    “I booked it today. There was a seat on a cheap flight.”
    More silence.
    “I’ll drive you to the airport,” Patrick said at last.
    “That’s very nice of you but it’s way too far to drive. Really. It would be silly. I’ll take the train to Toronto and get a bus or something to the airport. There must be all kinds of buses.”
    “I’m driving you to the airport,” Patrick said. “I’ll take the day off work.” He put down the spoon and picked up his coffee.
    And that was it. There was nothing left to do but go.

CHAPTER TWO
Edward
    Struan, January 1969
    I heard my father’s voice today. Like the echo of a nightmare.
    I was shouting at Peter and Corey—hardly an unusual event. I shout at them too much, I know that. When they are not around I think, From now on I will be different, I will be a better father, and ten minutes after they reappear I’m shouting at them again. But this is the first time I have recognized his voice, his rage, coming out of my own mouth.
    Not that my anger wasn’t justified. Their behaviour is intolerable; it is like a dentist drilling. The constant
noise
, the continual yelling and crashing about, make it impossible to concentrate on anything.
    This afternoon was a prime example. I had been waiting all week for a chance to look at the books on Rome that Betty Parry got for me from the central library in Toronto. She has pulled strings on my behalf—I believe she said I was doing research, which is stretching things—and they have extended the borrowing period from three weeks to six, but today is Saturday, which means that already one whole week has passed without my being able to do more than flip through the pages. It is even morefrustrating because all three of the books appear to be comprehensive and well written.
    Rome is my subject for this winter. Over the past five winters I have done Paris, London, Cairo, Leningrad and Istanbul. I do one city or culture per year. You could call it a survival strategy, I suppose; the winters up here take some surviving. My life takes some surviving, come to that.
    So this afternoon, as a birthday present to myself—as of today I have been on this earth for forty-seven years (no one has remembered, needless to say)—I decided to take advantage of the fact that Peter and Corey, beyond question the two most disruptive members of this family, seemed to have gone out, to ignore the pile of papers I’d brought home with me from the bank and spend the whole afternoon in Rome. If a miracle were to occur, if a genie popped out of the antique inkwell on my