【荆棘鸟】第六章 12

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something from himself for her very own. He doubted that anyone else fully¹ appreciated what Hal meant to her. But it was a long time. There were the last rites² to be administered, in case the soul had not yet left the body; and Fee to see, Paddy to see, practical advice to give. The doctor had gone, dejected but long used to the tragedies his far-flung practice made inevitable³. From what they said, little he could have done anyway, so far from his hospital and his trained nursing staff. These people took their chances, they faced their demons⁴ and hung on. His death certificate would say "Croup." It was a handy malady⁵. Eventually there was nothing left for Father Ralph to see to. Paddy had gone to Fee, Bob and the boys to the carpentry shed to make the little coffin⁶. Stuart was on the floor in Fee's bedroom, his pure profile so like her own silhouetted⁷ against the night sky outside the window; from where she lay on her pillow with Paddy's hand in hers, Fee never left her contemplation of the dark shape huddled⁸ on the cold floor. It was five o'clock in the morning and the roosters were stirring drowsily⁹, but it would be dark for a long time yet.

Purple stole around his neck because he had forgotten he was wearing it, Father Ralph bent¹⁰ to the kitchen fire and built it up from embers into a blaze, turned down the lamp on the table behind, and sat on a wooden bench opposite Meggie to watch her. She had grown, put on seven-league boots which threatened to leave him behind, outstripped¹¹; he felt his inadequacy¹² then more keenly, watching her, than ever he had in a life filled with a gnawing¹³, obsessive¹⁴ doubt of his courage. Only what was he afraid of? What did he think he couldn't face if it came? He could be strong for other people, he didn't fear other people; but within himself, expecting that nameless something to come sliding into consciousness when he least expected it, he knew fear. While Meggie, born eighteen years after him, was growing beyond him. Not that she was a saint, or indeed anything more than most. Only that she never complained, that she had the gift-or was it the curse?-of acceptance. No matter what had gone or what might come, she confronted it and accepted it, stored it away to fuel the furnace of her being. What had taught her that? Could it be taught? Or was his idea of her a figment of his own fantasies? Did it really matter? Which was more important: 

 

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