Convalescence by Maynard Sims Page B

the trees.
    At the tree line Uncle Thomas veered off to the right and strode down a path that I hadn’t noticed before.
    I had to run to keep up with him.
    Within a few minutes the path petered out, and we were standing before a circular body of water about fifty feet across.
    Trees surrounded the pond—willows mostly—their lush green crowns bowing down and skimming the surface of the water. Midges hung in small clouds, and a couple of dragonflies darted about between the bulrushes that peppered the bank.
    To my surprise, my uncle stopped by a small patch of grass and sat down, crossing his legs like a boy scout around a campfire. He patted the grass beside him, and I sat down as well.
    â€œWhen I was younger I used to come here all the time, just to sit and watch the dragonflies.”
    â€œIt’s very peaceful,” I said.
    He was nodding his head. “Yes, it is. A great place to come to sit and just think.”
    We lapsed into silence. Overhead, birds had begun their evening chorus, an echo of the cacophony they performed at dawn. A blackbird sounded a strident, insistent cry.
    At the sound Uncle Thomas looked up at the trees. “It knows we’re here. It’s calling out to warn the others. They look after their own, blackbirds.”
    I wanted to say to him “Is that why you asked me to come down here?”, but I didn’t, and the moment passed.
    â€œHave you lived here long?” I said after another long, contemplative silence.
    â€œAbout twenty years, I suppose. I bought the place when I came back from South Africa. I needed somewhere to put down some roots, and this place fitted the bill. Very green and peaceful after those years in the Transvaal.”
    â€œWhy did you come back?”
    He glanced round at me. “I was homesick, truth be told. I’d gone out to South Africa as a very young man to make my fortune. By the age of forty I’d done that. Oh, it was hard work, sometimes working up to eighteen hours a day in, quite frankly, pretty grim conditions. It didn’t leave much time for what you could call a social life. I hung on for a few more years, but things were changing out there politically and socially, so I sold up my stake in the mine to DeBeers and headed home. It was probably the best thing I ever did.”
    â€œDo you miss it?”
    â€œNot at all. I came home, bought this place and settled down. When Mrs. Rogers eventually came to fill the position of housekeeper and brought her young son, Hugh, with her, it finally gave me what I’d been craving during those hot and dusty days in South Africa, a family of sorts. Those were happy times at the manor. The days were filled with laughter. There were always new adventures to be had. Hughie kept me on my toes, I can tell you.”
    â€œSo why did he leave?”
    A cloud suddenly passed over my uncle’s eyes, obliterating the sparkle that had settled in them as he’d reminisced. He got to his feet. “Time to get back,” he said abruptly and strode down the path to the house.
    Again, I had to run to keep up with him.
    We walked back to the house in silence.
    Mrs. Rogers was waiting by the kitchen door when we arrived back, and she quickly claimed custody of me, shooing me into the kitchen to give me my evening dose of tablets.
    Uncle Thomas, apart from a curt “good night, James”, left the kitchen and went back to his rooms in the west wing, leaving me to regret my question to him. I’d obviously touched a nerve.
    I tapped on Amy’s door.
    â€œCome in.”
    I pushed the door open and entered her bedroom.
    She was sitting in bed, the covers up to her knees, dressed in a cotton nightdress with a flower print, her curly hair loose, tumbling to her shoulders. She looked young, little more than a child.
    â€œPull up a chair,” she said, “and tell me what it is you wanted to talk to me about.”
    I fetched the chair from the dressing table