The Healing of Broken Souls

Chapter 18

We spent the rest of the day trying to make up for all the lost years. We talked like we'd never talked before. I brought out a bottle of Jack Daniel's leftover from Christmas and poured us both a stiff drink. I needed it more than my father did. I was racked with guilt over my behaviour as a teenager. I couldn't come to terms with the fact that I'd rejected all his attempts to tell me what had really happened that day. He must have had the patience of a saint.

Eventually, he convinced me that it did no good to blame myself. He told me that, decades later, he'd read articles about the symptoms of PTSD in soldiers returning from Iraq, and came to the conclusion that we'd both suffered the same in the years after my mother's death. At the time, he was having difficulty holding things together and hadn't realized how much it had affected me. He insisted it was he who was at fault for not seeking help.

Once I'd accepted his reasoning and I was back on an even keel he asked me to tell him all about my days in the Navy, so I spent the entire evening relating all my travels in chronological order. He wanted to know every detail, so I retrieved the list of anecdotes I'd used when I was writing my book to make sure I missed nothing out.

By the time I'd finished, it was nearly midnight and we'd emptied the bottle of whiskey.

#

In the morning it was my turn to ask my father about his life after I walked out. I'd suggested we drive back to the dunes or the beet field in the hope of spotting a hemipode, but he refused and said it didn't seem important anymore.

We chatted companionably on the terrace overlooking the stream all morning. In answer to my many questions, he told me he'd never married again. He'd never met anyone who could replace Clara. He'd thrown himself into his work and been promoted to supervisor and, with his increased salary, had bought the house he now lived in. He spent all his spare time birdwatching, was a member of a couple of clubs, and went on organized twitching holidays, but had never ventured beyond Europe.

At midday, I offered to go and start preparing some lunch but he said he'd like to buy me lunch at the restaurant where we'd eaten a couple of days before. I readily agreed. He wasn't the only one who didn't think much of my culinary skills. I had to phone the restaurant to make sure they had a table free. It was usually busy on Saturdays.

When we arrived, the head waiter met us at the door and told us we could sit inside, or outside on the terrace. I made a beeline for a shady outside table but my father stopped me.

"Do you mind if we sit inside?" he said. "There are smokers out here."

"Of course," I complied. "I know you ex-smokers are hypersensitive to secondhand cigarette smoke."

"I'm not an ex-smoker," he said, surprised. "I've always hated cigarette smoke. What makes you think I'm an ex-smoker?"

"Your lung disease. It's caused by smoking isn't it?"

"Michael, I have asbestosis. Those insulators I spent most of my life making contained asbestos. I breathed in the dust. I've never smoked a cigarette."

I was humbled. I'd assumed that his cancer was self-inflicted and, because of that, hadn't shown him any sympathy. But it was yet another consequence of the sacrifices he'd made to be with my mother.

"I seem to have a track record of jumping to wrong conclusions," I admitted, feeling wretched.

"Don't worry about it," he said, and deftly changed the subject.

#

We were so engrossed in each other that we were asked to leave the restaurant at five o'clock. The staff needed a break before they opened again for the evening.

"We can go and sit out on my terrace and watch the sun go down," I suggested. "We might see the hoopoes again."

"Fair enough, but I'd like to go back to see the Bonelli's one more time before I go. Maybe we could do that tomorrow?"

"Oh ... okay," I said, suddenly overcome with disappointment at the thought of him going back to England. Now that I'd found my father again, I didn't want him to leave so soon.

The light began to fade as we chatted about our lives on the terrace. I told him about the plans I'd made to renovate my watermill when I had the money, maybe even have the cart track re-surfaced if I could afford it. I didn't mention that those plans were now redundant because I'd decided to sell my home to help Helen.

"You know that, when I pass away, everything I have will be yours?" he said.

I was embarrassed about discussing the subject of inheritance and I answered him hesitatingly.

"Well ... I don't think that's something we need to talk about right now."

"We do need to talk about it because it's a given that I'm going to die soon, and I want you to know that you'll have enough to renovate your watermill. I have some money in the bank and my house will be yours to sell. I've appointed Rebecca at the heir tracing agency as my executor so she has all the details, and there's also this ..."

He took a thin gold chain from around his neck and handed it to me. A diamond ring dangled from the chain, sparkling in the last rays of the setting sun.

"This is the engagement ring I bought for Clara," he said. "The one she gave me back until I earned my law degree. She refused to accept it until the day that happened, and it never did. I want you to have it now."

I stared at the diamond ring that had rightfully belonged to my mother. The ring I'd never seen her wear.

"Thanks, Dad. I'll treasure it."

"I don't want you to treasure it. I want you to put it to the use it was meant for," he winked roguishly, and I knew he was alluding to Helen.

I was about to tell him that Helen and I were destined to remain nothing but good friends when he pointed towards the trees and whispered, "What's that?"

I looked and grabbed my binoculars. At first, I thought it was only a common quail, but then I caught a glimpse of its pale orange breast. The tiny bird was visible for less than ten seconds before it vanished back into the scrub, but it was time enough for a positive identification. I glanced at my father and saw that he was beaming.

"That was it, wasn't it? An Andalucian Hemipode!"