White and Other Tales of Ruin

They circled around the back of the house and headed toward the forest smothering the lower hills. Peter carried a rucksack bulging with fresh bread and choice cuts from his fridge. Lucy-Anne shouldered another bag which clinked as she walked.

Doug carried Gemma. He sang softly, enjoying the look of contentment and happiness on her face, loving the way the corners of her mouth turned up whenever he spoke, as he had always loved it. There was nothing more wonderful in the world than seeing his daughter smile when she saw him. It told him that he was doing all the right things.

“Alright sweetie?” he asked quietly.

She planted a kiss on his cheek, leaned back and smiled at him. “Yes thanks, Daddy. You can let me down now, I’d like to walk.”

“It’s a long way.”

She shrugged, looked up into the blue sky. “I don’t care. It’s a nice day for a walk. It’s good for you, anyway.”

He stopped and lowered Gemma to the ground. She hurried away and his vision blurred, the tears came, but he fought them back. If she saw him crying, her final day would be an unhappy one. He could never do that to her, no matter what Peter said, however sure he was that nothing mattered any more. He could never hurt his baby.

Soon they were in the woods. Peter pointed out dozens of species of flower and heather to Gemma, who nodded attentively and smelled the blooms and prickled her fingers on the heathers, laughing. Lucy-Anne fell into step with Doug and held his hand, saying nothing. Their touch was communication enough, every slight squeeze of fingers or palm sending message of love, companionship and comfort back and forth. It made him happy.

Squirrels leapt from branch to branch, flashes of wondrous red. Birds sang from high in the trees, and occasionally fluttered around below the cover, snatching morsels from the ground or simply singing their unknowable songs.

Twenty minutes after leaving the house Doug shuffled the mobile phone from his pocket and dropped it as he walked. He did not worry about littering. And he felt no parting pangs.

Newcastle was only two hundred miles away.

“There used to be gold in these here hills,” Peter called out from where he had walked on ahead. “Even did a bit of prospecting myself. Swilled sediment around in a pan for weeks on end, anyway.”

“Did you find anything?” Lucy-Anne asked.

“Not a sliver, a filing or a nugget. But it was a nice few weeks, I’d take lunch with me and a good book, spend the whole day out in the wild and get back just before it was dark enough to get lost.” He had stopped, and stood staring through the last of the trees at the hillside looming above them, hands on his hips, shoulders rising and falling as he struggled for breath.

He was an old man, Doug kept having to remind himself. They were walking too fast, rushing to get from here to there, wherever here and there were, because of what would take them soon. “We should slow down,” he said. “There’s no hurry.”

Lucy-Anne glanced at him and smiled, her eyes glittering with tears she would never cry.

“Strange how some metals are so valuable,” Peter continued, in a world of his own. “Strange how we’re so ignorant, we think we can classify the importance of all the things that go to make the world. Rock, now. Rock. That should be the most valuable. Holds it all together, after all.”

“I thought gravity did that,” Doug mumbled.

“Lithium is the lightest metal there is,” Gemma said. She had been skipping along in front of them, pausing occasionally to bend down and stare at a flower or a rock of some crawling thing. Now she became still, and as she looked up into the sky — there was nothing there to see, nothing but blue — she continued. Her voice was the voice Doug had always known, but her words, her tone, her knowledge was pure mystery.

“It floats on water, has a specific gravity of nought-point-five-seven. Relative atomic mass six-point-nine-four-one. It’s used in batteries, and its compounds can be employed to treat manic depression. It was named in eighteen-eighteen by Jons Berzelius.” She sat down heavily and leaned forward, her head resting between her knees, talking at the ground. “But of course, it was his student Arfwedson who actually discovered it.”

Then she was sick.

“What the hell was that?” Doug called. “Eh? Peter? What was that?” He ran to his little girl as he shouted, barely wondering why he expected the old man to know what Gemma was talking about.

Lucy-Anne reached her first and scooped her up, ignoring the spatter of sick that fell across her front. “Honey?” she said. “You okay? You feel okay?”

“Headache,” Gemma said weakly, her face buried in her mother’s neck.

Doug reached them and stood behind Lucy-Anne, smoothing damp hair from Gemma’s pale face. She was sweating, drips of it ran down and pooled darkly on Lucy-Anne’s shirt, and she stank of vomit.

Yesterday dinosaurs, today lithium, Doug thought. Hell, I know nothing about lithium. Is this what they teach kids in primary school nowadays?