I don’t disagree.
She’s right, of course.
I’ve found myself opening up to her more, these past nights. I haven’t told her everything I’ve discussed with Ellen and Mum – it’s too much – but I have spoken about my dad, my grief over what he did for me, and Nick as well: all the pain I feel for us. She’s been great, not trying to fix anything, just listening, andit’s finally dawned on me that I should have leant on her much more than I have, long before now. But instead, I spent all my time in the woods, and up in this attic. Alone.
That’s why I wanted to bring Emma here tonight. Everything today has made me confront how idiotic I’ve been, cutting myself off from friends, when so many others had theirs taken away.
And I think Clare would enjoy the idea of us together in this room, drinking brandy in her honour.
Do you believe you’re all carrying parts of them?Ellen asked me before I left her this morning.Does Nick hold the essence of Robbie in him? Does Emma hold Clare? Felix, Tim?
Tim’s still alive, I pointed out.
Does that matter? Perhaps you’re all living their new stories, and have found your way to each other for them, as well as yourselves.
Perhaps, I said.I honestly have no idea.
I have considered it though.
I’ve thought about Felix’s adamance that he won’t repeat Tim’s triangle.
My own growing friendship with Emma.
And, most of all, Nick, who was drawn back here long before we started shooting, using it ashisescape from the pain of now that he just couldn’t tolerate. I’ve turned over the ease with which he’s taken to flying, and how at home he’s become in this place, finding his way to the village through Doverley’s old gateway, opening it with a knack that made me spin when I watched him do it. I’ve observed him everywhere else too – around the sets, the base, my attention caught constantly by the pull of his eyes,windows to his soul– and found myself wondering plenty.
What I am certain of is that he hasn’t pondered these possibilities himself.
The lanterns on his stage are alight, and he is purely now.
Purely here.
So is Felix.
So is Emma.
And maybe Ellen’s right.
Maybe they don’t need to be anywhere else.
Or maybe,maybe, they’re not needed anywhere else.
Byanyone else.
Emma sits on Clare’s bed, ducking to avoid the eaves, and raises her bottle to mine.
‘To Clare,’ she says.
‘To Clare,’ I echo. ‘To both of them.’
‘May they be drinking better brandy than this, wherever they are.’
Smiling, I clink my bottle to hers, and we down them; swallowing, gasping, laughing.
Faintly, I hear whispers beyond us: of other gasps.
More laughter.
Perhaps, if I turned to the mirror, I’d catch a glimpse of two further forms: shadows moving in the glass.
