Lizzie

After a little while the bear apparently lost interest, and it walked down the path for a bit before it disappeared from their view. Charles raised his eyebrows, and she gave him a thumbs up. He nodded and they softly walked away from the spot to the main path back to the village.

When they had reached the fields, Charles said, "Alright, lass - did you see what you wanted to see?"

"All of that and more. I love this! They are beautiful, aren't they?"

"Aye. But you don't want them vandals on your lawn. They are ruinous visitors."

"They are great in their own environment, though. Thank you very much, Charles!"

"Not at all. My pleasure!"

They walked back to the village down the path between the fields. Lizzie looked at the wide view from the hill across the village and on to the woods beyond. The sky was clear and starry and she loved walking there.

"We were in luck," Charles said. "It's a wonderful day for this sort of thing. They're expecting some rain tomorrow. It's not all nice to stand and wait there in the rain."

"Mmm... I hope it won't be rain all day... I do need some light to work by. Oh well, we'll see. I will have to revise my drawings first."

The road through the village took them past Charles's house where they said goodnight. Lizzie walked on, thinking of the big badger in the wood, and deciding that she wouldn't do any cooking that night. It was too late for that. Maybe some leftovers? Seemed the better idea.

When she'd come home she took some stew from the fridge and put it into the microwave. She had a nice glass of red wine with her meal, while she was going over her badger sketches. They were actually quite alright, she thought. She closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate. No, she didn't have to change anything. Good!

She had another look at the paintings she'd done that morning, with a broad grin on her face, thinking about Dan's reaction. He might just think she was hopelessly romantic, but somehow she didn't think so.

But then, he just might not come and visit her after all. He could be too tired after visiting his father, or just not be in the mood. Her face fell at the thought and she shrugged. She would find out in time. He had said he would... She did hope so indeed.

She spent the remainder of her evening with a cup of strong tea, listening to an old Kate Rusby album and she went to bed early. She lay down thinking about the pictures for Jane's new story, forming a preliminary idea of what they might be like. Then she switched off the light and fell asleep. She dreamt, as usual, but it wasn't about her pictures for once. Instead there were badgers, and she was in the wood with Dan, but he was as old as Charlie and she felt rather disappointed that he wasn't in his late thirties as he ought to be...

When she woke up she had to shake off the creepy atmosphere and get back to normal. She decided to do a few sketches and wait another day before starting to paint in earnest. She didn't understand why she should have dreamt the way she did. Fortunately the feeling of unreality wore off, and halfway the morning she felt her old self again.

In the afternoon she did some quick housework, and then she went to do some shopping. It wouldn't do not to do any cooking again that night - time for some vegetables and some rice! On returning home she went into the kitchen at once to start on a really good meal. She put some chicken into the oven and stir fried the vegetables and baked some potatoes while the chicken was coming on nicely. She delightedly sniffed the smell of the cooking a couple of times. Mmm! She really felt like some nice big dinner, and when it was done she sat down to it with some sweet music in the background.

When she'd cleared everything away she went into the living room and gave the new commission some serious thought. She certainly was on the right path. She reread the text Kevin had supplied her with. Yes, it definitely was what she envisaged. Good. She hoped the night wouldn't end in another confused and nightmarish dream. It wasn't productive - and it was really unpleasant too. But it wasn't something you could choose. At least, she didn't know how to make herself dream the kind of dream she wanted.

She went to bed fairly early and she tried to empty her mind before she fell asleep. It apparently worked; she was back to her usual dreams of colour and shapes, and she awoke happy and refreshed, and full of ideas and energy. Great!

The next few weeks were characterised by a lot of enjoyable and precise, satisfying and fulfilling work. It took her mind of things and gave her pleasant and safe things to think about, and she was fully occupied with the perfection of her trade, trying hard to get her colours just right, and generally succeeding, though not always. There was one picture in particular that contained a lot of shades of orange and yellow, and a few reds, that she didn't seem to able to get the way she envisaged it. It wasn't until the fifth or sixth attempt that she managed to do it the way she should. The satisfaction of having succeeded was all the deeper.

The long term weather forecast was unfavourable. There would be a succession of lows bringing a lot of rain, and she really wanted to be ready with Jane's book before she couldn't depend on the light any more. She purposefully put off doing something about her badgers - they could wait. She really wanted to see Jane's book in print. It would be nice if she could see her again; she would probably come and inspect her work when she had finished.

She had to stop every afternoon round about four now, sometimes even earlier. But there was enough for her to do when she wasn't working. For one thing, she was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the cluttered aspect of her living room, and she was trying to get the place into some semblance of order. She wasn't really surprised to find that she had two or three copies of quite a few books, now that she was arranging them by author. It meant a lot of extra space in her bookcase, and she could get a few piles of books that had been lying about neatly stowed away on the shelves.

She hadn't really changed anything much since Zeb had died; the way they had furnished their room had been quite neat and rather modern when they came to live there. Now, though, she wondered if she had, perhaps, refrained from making some necessary changes. Some of the furniture was a bit too seventies, and what irked her most, was the feeling it was a little cramped.

She had asked herself where the feeling came from, and she thought it was probably because of the slow and easy looks of Dan's rooms in the barn. They had suited her mood very well, and she had loved to feel at ease, too. She was trying to rearrange her place in her mind. It didn't work out too well, though - somehow Zeb seemed to interfere in her thoughts, and the rooms seemed too small. But that was probably because it was the wrong furniture? Shifting things about seemed very daunting. And throwing things out and buying new stuff? On the one hand she didn't want to get rid of the things they'd bought together, but on the other hand she didn't think he would have wanted never to change anything either. Her house tended to be a shrine to Zeb. Perhaps that was why it had felt so good to pass his old mandolin on to Charles?

The only places that didn't feel cramped were her studio and the study. Maybe she should turn the study into a library and music room? It would relieve the living room a lot. But she didn't have the energy to do so after a day's painting, and she was still in two minds about it. She smiled a bit at herself. Silly woman... But she felt really stuck between Zeb and the here and now, and she didn't quite know what to do about it.

Better just stick to her regime of painting and tidying up. That, at least, was really safe; it stopped her from trying to do some introspection and analyse her feelings. They were quite a mess, apparently.

Mmm. She shook her head, took a record from the shelf and put it on the turntable. The sounds of When I Get To The Border filled the room, and Lizzie hummed along. She poured herself a drink and sat down to listen.

XIX

Dan turned off the radio. He hated driving far at any time, and going to Scotland in bad weather seemed a less than appealing activity. But the last few telephone conversations with his father and with his uncle, who lived in the same town, had not instilled too much confidence in his father's condition. He was rather worried, to say the least. His father tried to play things down, the way he always did, but Dan had known him long enough not to think that his being breezy meant things were fine.

He had packed his travelling bag the day before, determined to be off in time to make it to his father's house before dark. The weather had been deteriorating over the last few days, and it was really doing its worst now, with continuous rain, varying in strength but lots of it anyway. He looked around in the kitchen to ensure there wouldn't be anything lying about when he returned. When Flo had died he had let things go for a few months, and then he had felt so disgusted with himself - his room just smelled - that he had promised himself to do things very differently indeed, and he believed in keeping one's promises.

Everything was fine, so he picked up his bag and his coat and went to his car. It was only a few yards, but still he was somewhat wet when he sat down in the driver's seat. He dumped his bag on the passenger side and started the engine; then he took the collection of CD copies from the dashboard locker and slipped a Rosie Flores album into the player. Something nice for the road, he thought. He took out a few others so he could change them while driving. He had made copies of a lot of favourite CDs to play in the car, and when he had left the drive and was well on his way, he tapped his foot to the music.

It wasn't long before his thoughts strayed to the day that Lizzie drove away through the rain. That day the weather had been a lot worse than it was today. The rain had been much heavier, and it had been a day of unmitigated gloom. He would try and visit her on the way back - it wasn't at all a big detour. He was looking forward to seeing her studio, and perhaps some of her work. He loved looking at the painting she had done for Geoff. It had been framed, and it had been given pride of place behind the bar. Most people who saw it for the first time commented on it. The comments were invariably enthusiastic, even though they were not always too knowledgeable, and somehow it made him feel proud to hear the praise lavished on it. Geoff had given him a picture of the bar. He had put it in his bag to give to Lizzie.

The third track was a special favourite of Dan's - Love and Danger, a kind of modern version of Blanket on the Ground. He sang along for a moment. Then he had to get his wits about him as he had to move onto the motorway. It was very busy, and there were loads of lorries driving almost bumper to bumper. They were throwing up a lot of spray, too, and it was difficult to get on. He managed in the end, and once he was on, he could enjoy the music again.

He loved using cruise control while driving but the road was too busy, and there were quite a few rather erratic drivers causing the others to brake, accelerate, brake again... The going was slow. Oh well, he knew that once he had passed Lincoln it would get better. It usually did at that time of day; he did hope so. After 45 minutes he changed the CD. He would certainly play it once again on the way back. He really felt in the mood for the eclectic mixture of country and tex mex, and it was well played and nice.

Mmm, he could perhaps play Tish on the way up, too. But the closer he came to the Scottish border, the gloomier his thoughts became. If only he could have someone to share his troubled thoughts with, a brother, or a girlfriend. His uncle was always there to talk with, but that wasn't the same. He was actually a year older than his father. He was much healthier and stronger, though. He had always done a lot of outdoors things, and apparently it had suited him well.

He wondered what he would find at the end of this trail. He hoped his father wouldn't be bed-ridden - but he wouldn't be surprised at all. He was certain that things weren't well. At least they could still talk together, not like his late aunt who had just sat in a wheelchair, not talking and not able to do even the smallest things. Getting old was quite a problem, and he suspected that his father was actually looking forward to the dying of the light.

It would mean that he would be the last remaining member of the family he had grown up in. Life would get pretty lonely then. His uncle would be a voice of the past still. But he was well past ninety, and he wouldn't last forever either. He scratched the top of his head for a moment while he was pondering the situation, but he almost immediately had to have both hands on the wheel again. There was a lot of water in the road, and the ruts in the asphalt were full. He didn't want to go skidding and he slowed down to a safe speed.

It had been provisional. Within a few minutes the traffic almost slowed to a halt as one of the hastier drivers had lost command of the steering wheel and hit a lorry. The hard shoulder and the slow lane were completely blocked. A score of cars had stopped behind them to be of assistance, and all remaining traffic tried to creep past the accident using the fast lane. It was really slow going.

Dan realised that if he hadn't fallen behind he might well have been part of the accident; he had driven behind the damaged lorry for quite a while. Sometimes you needed an angel on your shoulder... His father needed him, and he couldn't do with any incidents like that.

He managed to get past the site of the crash just before the police came down, followed closely by two ambulances and a van to tow the small car off. He had turned off the music as he wanted to watch the road without anything that asked for his attention. The traffic slowly picked up speed again but it seemed a lot of people had been sobered by the sight, and the rush that had surprised him so much was not so noticeable for quite a while.

He had been right in thinking that things would improve after Lincoln, and he turned up the sound a little again. When he had stopped to take fuel, he parked the car for a while and bought himself a cup of coffee. It tasted rather bad but at least it was warm, and it was good to walk a little and stretch his legs.

When he had stopped for thirty minutes, he went back to the car and drove the rest of the way without stopping. It was still a little light when he pulled up at his father's much too big house. He went to the front door with some trepidation. He had his own key and so he let himself in.

To his relief his father was in the living room. He got up to greet his son. Dan noticed that he was even more bent that the last time, but he was lucid and obviously very happy to see him.

Dan sat down across the rug from him, and told him a bit about the drive and the accident, and then he went to the kitchen to make the tea while his father lit his old briar. Dan hated people smoking indoors but for his father - it really belonged to him, and it was a part of his childhood.

After he had returned with the tea, the two men sat talking until it was time to see to some dinner. His father's household help had prepared an oven dish that only had to be heated, and Dan went back to the kitchen to do so. He set the alarm and took it into the living room after he had laid the table. His father loved eating together, and Dan had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't eat much when he was alone in the house, apart from an egg on toast in the morning and some yoghurt in the evening.

When the alarm went off they walked to the kitchen together, his father with the aid of a stick. Dan had broached the subject of a Zimmer frame once - but that had obviously been a bridge too far. When the old man was seated, with his stick by his side, Dan opened the bottle of wine he had brought, another of the rituals they observed together. He poured them both a glass, and they drank the first few sips in silence. Then he served dinner. They smiled at each other affectionately. His father's demise would really mean more loneliness. They tacitly did care for each other a great lot.

Dan waited until after dinner before asking his father about his condition. They never talked about it earlier, and it was understood that they always had dinner first. The help had made a good job of it; it was a really nice dish. Still, Dan noticed that his father didn't really do it any justice; he only ate a very small portion. Dan shook his head. It didn't help when you starved yourself. It might well be part of a plan though; they had often sat talking about the days of old and his father's regret at his mother having been the first to go. Life had lost its shine, it seemed.

Dinner being over, Dan accompanied his father back to the living room, and then went back and tidied up the kitchen. He made two cups of coffee and put two glasses on the tray. Then he braced himself for the questions he felt he had to ask.

His father had dropped off, and he sat snoring in his chair. Dan put the coffee on the low table beside him and looked around in the room. He had never lived there. When he had left the house and his brother had died, his parents had moved to Scotland to be near to his uncle, his father's only sibling. But he had visited them very frequently, right from the beginning. There were lots of books, but they looked as if no one had touched them for a very long time, and the remote of the TV looked dusty, too.

He carefully woke his father up, so that his coffee wouldn't go cold. Then he sat down to talk, and ask him about his daily routine, and his meals and life in general. He knew his father well enough to see through the things he said, and it was very clear to him that he simply had lost interest. His own visits excepted, his uncle was the main human contact he had, and he missed his old life more and more. It made Dan very sad. During the silences in the conversation he listened to the rain lashing the windows behind the thick green curtains, and looked around. He had known most of the furniture all his life, and he took it for granted, but the few times he really looked at it critically he found it suffocating and much too heavy - almost Victorian.

After they had finished the coffee and when Dan had heard all he wanted to hear, he put the coffee cups on the tray and asked his father if he wanted a drink. It was another part of their ritual together, and it was a real shock when his father declined.

"It doesn't agree with me any more, Dan. I am sorry. But I would highly appreciate it if you have a drink. I'll just light another pipe."

Dan poured himself a glass. "You do still find some comfort in smoking?"

His father nodded. "It is the one link to the past, silly though it may sound. Your mother used to give me a new briar every Christmas... I bought this one myself, but the feeling is the same."

He took it out of his mouth and looked at it.

"I'm so tired. Life really seems flat, stale and unprofitable. I have lost my taste for a dram, modern TV is much too fast, unstructured and loud, my eyes aren't any too good for reading... I do listen to the radio at times."

Dan listened and shook his head. He was searching his mind for words of comfort but there didn't seem to be any. Eventually his father stopped talking.

"Is there anything whatsoever I can do?"

"I don't think so. I can't think of anything more you can do than you do already." He took his pipe and put it down on the ashtray. "I think I'd better turn in now, son."