wife? So long ago, perhaps so long that the reason for their burial would never be known.
He was still holding Daphne’s card. Instead of cutting it into pieces or otherwise disposing of it, he put it back in his pocket.
5
W HEN J O DIED some few months before, Lewis Newman had received letters of condolence from people he had known during the various phases of his long life—one fellow medical student whose name he couldn’t even remember, neighbours from the Birmingham days, those of his friends who were still alive, and his partner in the practice where he had last worked. A letter also came from someone he had been at school with—primary school, as they called it these days. Most of these people, apart from the friends, had read the announcement of Jo’s death in the Times . That was what such announcements were for, Lewis supposed, and now he wondered why he had agreed to his cousin’s (“beloved wife of”) insistence that it should be put there.
He replied to these letters, as was polite. In Jo’s lifetime, she had replied, and writing to one of the Birmingham people, he thought to himself that this was the first of such missives he had ever written. He saved answering the school friend’s letter till last because it was the most interesting. From Stanley Batchelor, it was scarcely a letter of condolence at all. True, Batchelor did say he was sorry to hear of Jo’s death, but the tone, Lewis thought, was rather that a man who had looked after a woman “through years of illness” mustto some extent be relieved by her demise. This was so much Lewis’s own sentiment—something he could never dream of revealing to anyone—that it endeared Stanley Batchelor to him.
The Batchelors. How memories of the family came back to him now across seven decades. His own family had lived in Brook Road and the Batchelors in Tycehurst Hill. Stanley had a dog, called Nipper. Amazing to remember that. One of Stanley’s brothers, the youngest perhaps, was called Norman, and he used to boast about being born on the kitchen table. The address on the letter was Theydon Bois. So he hadn’t moved far from Loughton or, if he had, had come back again. There was an email address as well. Most people of their age didn’t send emails, hardly knew what an email was. The last line of the letter, before the bit about deepest sympathy , read, If you haven’t thought about this “neck of the woods” for years, the newspaper stories about Warlock will have brought it back to you. An extraordinary business. It would be good to meet sometime if you feel like it.
Death, thought Lewis, brought old friends, long separated, back together. He had liked Stanley Batchelor very much when they were children. Would he like him now? Like or not, he was the very person with whom to discuss, if not the Warlock business, the place they called something strange—what was it?—yes, the qanats. He couldn’t remember why. That and something else, which, though it had never troubled him, never come near to making him unhappy, had been on the edge of his consciousness ever since he was not much older than the age he had been when he and Stanley Batchelor had been friends. It had bothered his mother. She and Uncle James—no one ever called him Jim—had been close all their lives, though she was seven years older than he. Perhaps because she was seven years older and, as was common in the twenties, had had to look after him when she was a big child and he four years old.
Lewis had often thought about Uncle James. When Lewis was first married, he had told Jo about him and his curious disappearance.
“He got killed in the war, didn’t he?”
“For that to have happened he would have to have joined up, and it seems he didn’t.”
“It doesn’t much matter now,” said Jo.
“It matters to me and to Mum. He just disappeared.”
“I read somewhere that lots of people did. They were in houses that got bombed. Or they were drafted to work in
He was still holding Daphne’s card. Instead of cutting it into pieces or otherwise disposing of it, he put it back in his pocket.
5
W HEN J O DIED some few months before, Lewis Newman had received letters of condolence from people he had known during the various phases of his long life—one fellow medical student whose name he couldn’t even remember, neighbours from the Birmingham days, those of his friends who were still alive, and his partner in the practice where he had last worked. A letter also came from someone he had been at school with—primary school, as they called it these days. Most of these people, apart from the friends, had read the announcement of Jo’s death in the Times . That was what such announcements were for, Lewis supposed, and now he wondered why he had agreed to his cousin’s (“beloved wife of”) insistence that it should be put there.
He replied to these letters, as was polite. In Jo’s lifetime, she had replied, and writing to one of the Birmingham people, he thought to himself that this was the first of such missives he had ever written. He saved answering the school friend’s letter till last because it was the most interesting. From Stanley Batchelor, it was scarcely a letter of condolence at all. True, Batchelor did say he was sorry to hear of Jo’s death, but the tone, Lewis thought, was rather that a man who had looked after a woman “through years of illness” mustto some extent be relieved by her demise. This was so much Lewis’s own sentiment—something he could never dream of revealing to anyone—that it endeared Stanley Batchelor to him.
The Batchelors. How memories of the family came back to him now across seven decades. His own family had lived in Brook Road and the Batchelors in Tycehurst Hill. Stanley had a dog, called Nipper. Amazing to remember that. One of Stanley’s brothers, the youngest perhaps, was called Norman, and he used to boast about being born on the kitchen table. The address on the letter was Theydon Bois. So he hadn’t moved far from Loughton or, if he had, had come back again. There was an email address as well. Most people of their age didn’t send emails, hardly knew what an email was. The last line of the letter, before the bit about deepest sympathy , read, If you haven’t thought about this “neck of the woods” for years, the newspaper stories about Warlock will have brought it back to you. An extraordinary business. It would be good to meet sometime if you feel like it.
Death, thought Lewis, brought old friends, long separated, back together. He had liked Stanley Batchelor very much when they were children. Would he like him now? Like or not, he was the very person with whom to discuss, if not the Warlock business, the place they called something strange—what was it?—yes, the qanats. He couldn’t remember why. That and something else, which, though it had never troubled him, never come near to making him unhappy, had been on the edge of his consciousness ever since he was not much older than the age he had been when he and Stanley Batchelor had been friends. It had bothered his mother. She and Uncle James—no one ever called him Jim—had been close all their lives, though she was seven years older than he. Perhaps because she was seven years older and, as was common in the twenties, had had to look after him when she was a big child and he four years old.
Lewis had often thought about Uncle James. When Lewis was first married, he had told Jo about him and his curious disappearance.
“He got killed in the war, didn’t he?”
“For that to have happened he would have to have joined up, and it seems he didn’t.”
“It doesn’t much matter now,” said Jo.
“It matters to me and to Mum. He just disappeared.”
“I read somewhere that lots of people did. They were in houses that got bombed. Or they were drafted to work in
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