White and Other Tales of Ruin

Peter shook his hands dry and transferred the vegetables into a huge pan of boiling water. “In reverse order: the gargoyles to keep people away from the house; the animals on the trees to keep trespassers from my land; the lights so that people can see what I’ve done. It took a long time. Why have it all hidden half the time?”

Doug smiled at the simple logic of it. “But why keep people from the house?”

The old man shrugged. “Don’t like people, mostly.”

There was a clatter of feet from the hallway and Gemma and Lucy-Anne hurried in. They both had wet hair, loose-fitting clothes that Peter had found in some mysteriously well-appointed wardrobe and rosy complexions that made Doug’s heart ache.

“Your turn,” Peter said.

“Huh?”

“Shower. Change. Forgive my bluntness, but you smell.”

“Daddy smells, Daddy smells!”

He relented, and after giving his wife and daughter a kiss — a hard hug for Gemma, a long, lingering kiss for Lucy-Anne — he made his way up the curving staircase to their bedrooms.

There were towels on the bed, a basket of fruit on the dressing table, a bottle of red wine uncorked and breathing beside the bed, two glasses, and a door between theirs and Gemma’s bedrooms. Thought I might see some of my folk over the next day or two, the mad old fool had said. And though he had claimed to hate people, Doug could see that this was what Peter had wanted more than anything else.

After a hearty meal of steak, fried potatoes, vegetables and great, thick chunks of garlic butter-soaked bread, the four of them made their way into Peter’s living room and sat down with a drink. Gemma went to sleep almost immediately, nestled against Peter’s arm, and the three adults — though tired — sat talking until the sun set fire to the day outside.

There was a strange atmosphere between them, a feeling that they had known each other forever and that there was not a chasm of ten years between this and their last meeting. Lucy-Anne and Peter seemed especially comfortable, finding it unnecessary to resort to reliving old times or talking about absent — or dead — family members to get by. Instead their talk was of Gemma, what she had done in her short life to date, what she wanted to do. Her prospects.

And for a while, Doug was happy to let this go. He half-closed his eyes, enjoying the sense of the brandy sweeping through his veins and setting his stiff muscles afire, listening to Peter and Lucy-Anne’s tempered voices. He found solace in their tone if not their words. He soon tried to tune out what they were saying — because none of it held true meaning any more — and enjoy instead the peace their voices conveyed, the sheer pleasantness of this unreal scene of family conviviality.

But then Gemma stirred and began to mutter in her sleep.

“Never done that before …” Lucy-Anne said idly. And she said no more.

None of them did. There was nothing to do but listen to what the little girl was saying.

“First birds were in the Jurassic period, two hundred and thirteen million years ago,” she mumbled into Peter’s side.

The old man stared down at her wide-eyed, but he did not move. Moving may have disturbed her.

“First mammals and dinosaurs in the Triassic two hundred and forty-eight million years ago, but the dinosaurs reached their peak in the Cretaceous, one hundred and forty-four million years back. First land plants in Silurian times, four hundred and thirty-eight million years ago.” She struggled slightly then, frowning, as if searching for something hidden behind whatever she had been saying. “First humans. Couple of million years ago. Pleistocene epoch.”

She sat up and opened her eyes. “Blink of an eye.”

“Gemma?” Doug whispered, but then she began to cry.

“Bright girl you’ve got here, folks.”

“Gemma? Honey?”

Gemma’s face crumpled as sleep left her behind. Tears formed in her eyes, her nose wrinkled. “Dad,” she said. “Mum …” Then the tears came in earnest and Doug darted across the room, lifted his daughter from Peter’s side, hugged her close to him.

“Gemma, what’s wrong babe?” Lucy-Anne said. Her voice betrayed none of Doug’s concern or confusion. Hadn’t she heard what Gemma was saying? Hadn’t it registered?

“Got a headache,” she sniffled into Doug’s shoulder. “And I need to pee.”

“Here.” Lucy-Anne took Gemma and carried her from the room, and seconds later the two men heard her footsteps on the bare timber risers.

Doug was breathing heavily. Something about the last minute had scared him badly, some facet of Gemma’s sleep-talking sat all wrong with what was happening, what they were going through.

“Well, I bought her a dinosaur book,” he said. “All kids like dinosaurs, but I’m sure … well, that was pretty detailed.”

“Like I said, bright girl.”

“We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” Doug said. “You, me, Lucy-Anne … Gemma.”

“Of course,” Peter nodded. “Nothing we can do about it. But we have some time, don’t know how much but there’s some. How about we make it the best we can?” He smiled and poured Doug another drink. “Here. Been saving this for a special day.”