from beneath it.
From the kitchen window he looked up at the broad sweep of the moorland, fleeced in brilliant snow, to the gold and silver laminated sunrise.
He made out Susanne’s slim figure silhouetted against the brightness. She looked small and vulnerable, set against such vastness, and Lincoln felt something move within him, an emotion like sadness and regret, the realisation of squandered opportunity.
On impulse he fetched his coat, left the cottage and followed the trail of her deep footprints up the hillside to the crest of the rise.
She heard the crunch of his approach, turned and gave a wan half-smile. “Admiring the view,” she whispered.
He stood beside her, staring down at the limitless expanse of the land, comprehensively white save for the lee sides of the dry-stone walls, the occasional distant farmhouse.
Years ago he had taken long walks with Susanne, enjoyed summer afternoons with her on the wild and undulating moorland. Then she had grown, metamorphosed into a teenager he had no hope of comprehending, a unique individual—no longer a malleable child—over whom he had no control. He had found himself, as she came more and more to resemble her mother and take Barbara’s side in every argument, in a minority of one.
He had become increasingly embittered, over the years. Now he wanted to reach out to Susanne, make some gesture to show her that he cared, but found himself unable to even contemplate the overture of reconciliation.
In the distance, miles away on the far horizon, was the faerie structure of the Station, its tower flashing sunlight.
At last she said, “I’m sorry,” so softly that he hardly heard.
His voice seemed too loud by comparison. “I understand,” he said.
She shook her head. “I don’t think you do.” She paused. Tears filled her eyes, and he wondered why she was crying like this.
“Susanne...”
“But you don’t understand.”
“I do,” he said gently. “Your mother didn’t want me to know about her illness—she didn’t want me around. Christ, I was a pain enough to her when she was perfectly well.”
“It wasn’t that,” Susanne said in a small voice. “You see, she didn’t want you to know that she’d been wrong.”
“Wrong?” He stared at her, not comprehending. “Wrong about what?”
She took a breath, said, “Wrong about the implant,” and tears escaped her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.
Lincoln felt something tighten within his chest, constrict his throat, making words difficult.
“What do you mean?” he asked at last.
“Faced with death, in the last weeks... it was too much. I... I persuaded her to think again. At last she realised she’d been wrong. A week before she died, she had the implant.” Susanne looked away, not wanting, or not daring, to look upon his reaction to her duplicity.
He found it impossible to speak, much less order his thoughts, as the realisation coursed through him.
Good God. Barbara...
He felt then love and hate, desire and a flare of anger.
Susanne said, “She made me swear not to tell you. She hated you, towards the end.”
“It was my fault,” he said. “I was a bastard. I deserved everything. It’s complex, Susanne, so bloody damned complex—loving someone and hating them at the same time, needing to be alone and yet needing what they can give.”
A wind sprang up, lifting a tress of his daughter’s hair. She fingered it back into place behind her ear. “I heard from her three months ago—a kind of CD thing delivered from my local Station. She told me that she’d been terribly cruel in not telling you. I... I meant to come up and tell you earlier, but I had no idea how you’d react. I kept putting it off. I came up yesterday because it was the last chance before she returns.”
“When?” Lincoln asked, suddenly aware of the steady pounding of his heart.
“Today,” Susanne said. She glanced at her watch. “At noon today—at this Station.”
“This Station?” Lincoln
From the kitchen window he looked up at the broad sweep of the moorland, fleeced in brilliant snow, to the gold and silver laminated sunrise.
He made out Susanne’s slim figure silhouetted against the brightness. She looked small and vulnerable, set against such vastness, and Lincoln felt something move within him, an emotion like sadness and regret, the realisation of squandered opportunity.
On impulse he fetched his coat, left the cottage and followed the trail of her deep footprints up the hillside to the crest of the rise.
She heard the crunch of his approach, turned and gave a wan half-smile. “Admiring the view,” she whispered.
He stood beside her, staring down at the limitless expanse of the land, comprehensively white save for the lee sides of the dry-stone walls, the occasional distant farmhouse.
Years ago he had taken long walks with Susanne, enjoyed summer afternoons with her on the wild and undulating moorland. Then she had grown, metamorphosed into a teenager he had no hope of comprehending, a unique individual—no longer a malleable child—over whom he had no control. He had found himself, as she came more and more to resemble her mother and take Barbara’s side in every argument, in a minority of one.
He had become increasingly embittered, over the years. Now he wanted to reach out to Susanne, make some gesture to show her that he cared, but found himself unable to even contemplate the overture of reconciliation.
In the distance, miles away on the far horizon, was the faerie structure of the Station, its tower flashing sunlight.
At last she said, “I’m sorry,” so softly that he hardly heard.
His voice seemed too loud by comparison. “I understand,” he said.
She shook her head. “I don’t think you do.” She paused. Tears filled her eyes, and he wondered why she was crying like this.
“Susanne...”
“But you don’t understand.”
“I do,” he said gently. “Your mother didn’t want me to know about her illness—she didn’t want me around. Christ, I was a pain enough to her when she was perfectly well.”
“It wasn’t that,” Susanne said in a small voice. “You see, she didn’t want you to know that she’d been wrong.”
“Wrong?” He stared at her, not comprehending. “Wrong about what?”
She took a breath, said, “Wrong about the implant,” and tears escaped her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.
Lincoln felt something tighten within his chest, constrict his throat, making words difficult.
“What do you mean?” he asked at last.
“Faced with death, in the last weeks... it was too much. I... I persuaded her to think again. At last she realised she’d been wrong. A week before she died, she had the implant.” Susanne looked away, not wanting, or not daring, to look upon his reaction to her duplicity.
He found it impossible to speak, much less order his thoughts, as the realisation coursed through him.
Good God. Barbara...
He felt then love and hate, desire and a flare of anger.
Susanne said, “She made me swear not to tell you. She hated you, towards the end.”
“It was my fault,” he said. “I was a bastard. I deserved everything. It’s complex, Susanne, so bloody damned complex—loving someone and hating them at the same time, needing to be alone and yet needing what they can give.”
A wind sprang up, lifting a tress of his daughter’s hair. She fingered it back into place behind her ear. “I heard from her three months ago—a kind of CD thing delivered from my local Station. She told me that she’d been terribly cruel in not telling you. I... I meant to come up and tell you earlier, but I had no idea how you’d react. I kept putting it off. I came up yesterday because it was the last chance before she returns.”
“When?” Lincoln asked, suddenly aware of the steady pounding of his heart.
“Today,” Susanne said. She glanced at her watch. “At noon today—at this Station.”
“This Station?” Lincoln
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