But wait. Cohen couldn’t – he simply couldn’t – leave River with so little ceremony. Not after their night together, after such fervent declarations of their love. And so, he pulled away from Rushi’s grip, rushing back to the carriage, putting a hand up to the window where River sat.
River smiled, pressing her own hand back against the glass. And the connection between them, small though it was and separated by a layer of TFL-approved windowpane, warmed Cohen’s heart. He smiled, pressing his hand to his lips while River signed to him. It was a swift movement, made just as the tube doors closed and the train began to pull away from the platform, hurtling back into the black depths of underground London. A simple point to herself, before she curled both hands over her heart and pointed to him. He nodded as River was whipped away from him, because now he understood. He understood entirely; the sign having been burned into his memory and written into his heart by a pair of hazel eyes and a soft kiss, a happy smile.
I love you.
He stood for a moment, staring at the tunnel into which River disappeared, already missing her presence, aching with the loss of her body near his. He waited, slightly dumbstruck, a full two minutes going by, coming back to himself only when another train filled the station, bodies swarming the platform. A hand brushed against his and he jumped but it was only Rushi, standing beside him, leaning on her cane and looking at him thoughtfully.
‘Come on, Ford,’ she said gently. ‘You can buy me lunch.’
Thomas Simpson
Died of exhaustion after saving many lives from the breaking ice at Highgate Ponds
January 25, 1885
The tiles were sobering, hard and cool behind him.
Rushi and Cohen sat on a bench in Postman’s Park, staring out over the small green space. If he looked, Cohen could see St. Paul’s Cathedral itself, sitting high and proud against the grey skyline. They were, for the most part, entirely alone here; office workers rushed past them, umbrellas held against the sleet, heads down and feet hurried. They paid no attention to the petite elderly woman sitting next to a tall and broad man, sharing a sandwich in the snow.
Cohen sipped at his coffee, pointing to the wall behind them.
‘What is all this?’ he asked.
Rushi turned around, regarding the wall with blank eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘A memorial to heroic self-sacrifice.’
‘Self-sacrifice,’ Cohen murmured, reading along the tiles.
‘Mmm.’ Rushi nodded. ‘From the Victorian era. These are the names of men, women and children who gave their lives to help others. It’s sad. I don’t like to read them. Not any more. I used to bring River here when she was little. She liked to read them. She liked to remember.’
Cohen laid a hand against one of the tiles.
Henry James Bristow
Aged eight – at Walthamstow
On December 30, 1890 – saved his little sister’s life by tearing off her flaming clothes but caught fire himself and died of burns and shock.
And then he looked at another.
Samuel Rabbeth
Medical Officer of the Free Royal Hospital
Who tried to save a child suffering from Diphtheria at the cost of his own life
October 26, 1884
A Jewish man, Cohen realised, swallowing hard. Because with a name like Samuel Rabbeth, he must have been of his people, of his faith. He probably lay buried somewhere in London, under a Star of David, or amenorahperhaps, waiting forOlam Haba,sleeping peacefully, knowing he was a righteous man.
Cohen wondered if, after death, he would sleep just as well.
These tiles made Cohen want to reach into the past, to save them all. He sighed as he laid his hand on Henry Bristow’s tile, the only legacy left of a child who burned to death to save another. Cohen was struck again by the sudden melancholy realisation that he had done nothing worthwhile with his life. He worked for a corporation that put profit before people. He’d wedded a woman who put money before marriage. He himself put anger before forgiveness and let a regretful old man die in a hospice, alone and unloved. Cohen swallowed hard again, realising that he sacrificed his father to appease his own fury.
That rankled most of all. Because Cohen knew that of all the disappointments in his life, he himself was the worst of them. Eight-year-old Cohen might have been abandoned by his father and reared by a difficult mother, but at least he lived. Had eight-year-old Henry Bristow lived he would have no doubt been a good man, Cohen realised. Was he himself a good man? Perhaps not. He’d lived without appreciating life. He’d taken advantage of the misery of others. He’d let bitterness shrivel his heart.
Well, no more. He was going to make his life count. He was going to be the kind of man who was worthy of a tile on a wall. A man who would sleep well in his grave, waiting for the world to come.
He turned back to Rushi, picking out an apple from the bag at their feet.Apple,he signed without even thinking, simply trying the word with his hands. But as he took a bite, juice trickling down his chin, he saw Rushi staring at him, her mouth slightly open.
