Coda #2
‘Ah, that,’ he said. ‘Forgive my appearance. It must come as a shock.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not referring to that,’ she said. ‘I’m given to understand that you lost all of your books in the fire. It must have been terribly upsetting.’
‘There have been many upsetting events in my life,’ he said. ‘Not being able to read is certainly one of them.’
‘Then, with your permission, I would like to read to you,’ she said, sitting by the bed and pulling a book from her bag. ‘I was also told that you are a devotee of Thucydides. I took the liberty of bringing my copy with me. Would you like me to read it?’
‘That—’ he began. Then he started to cry. ‘That would be lovely. Which translation?’
‘The Crawley, of course,’ she said, opening it. ‘I think it’s the better one. Don’t you?’
‘I do,’ he said.
Sparks, listening outside, heard Barton begin: ‘Thucydides, an Athenian, wrote the history of the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, beginning at the moment that it broke out, and believing that it would be a great war and more worthy of relation than any that had preceded it …’
She left them there, and walked out of the hospital to the railway station.
London, 1947
They entered Brompton Cemetery through the north gate, then looked down the long main road.
‘Emmeline Pankhurst is buried over there somewhere,’ commented Iris as they headed south.
‘My mother took me to the funeral. I was maybe ten years old. She kept telling me about the Suffragists and all that they endured. Yet here I am in 1947, and I still don’t have an official degree from Cambridge. ’
They walked along, yew trees towering over them on both sides. In the distance, the dome of the chapel poked up.
‘This section on the left,’ said Iris. ‘There should be several rows of Spurlocks there.’
They walked among the graves as the stones became newer and newer.
‘There she is,’ said Gwen, pointing to one.
It was a simple stone, with the inscription reading Nancy Spurlock, 1917–1936. Underneath were the words, Neither can they die any more: for they are equal unto the angels.
‘What is that from?’ asked Iris.
‘Luke, chapter 20,’ said Gwen.
They looked down at the grave for a moment.
‘Do you mind if I pray for her?’ asked Gwen.
‘By all means,’ said Iris.
Gwen put her hands together and closed her eyes, her lips moving. Iris waited, idly watching an iridescent golden-green beetle land on some wilting flowers on an adjacent plot. A rose chafer, she thought.
Gwen opened her eyes and said, ‘I’m done.’
Iris knelt by the grave and placed a bunch of white lilies on it, then placed her palm on the grass over it for a moment. Then she stood back up.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
They walked back towards the gate.
‘A point of clarification,’ said Gwen. ‘As an atheist, you don’t believe in an afterlife, correct?’
‘Correct,’ said Iris.
‘Then why put flowers on Nancy’s grave if you don’t think there’s any chance of her knowing?’
‘In case I’m wrong,’ said Iris.
An hour later, they were back at the Cecilia.
‘I’ve disconnected the shoreline, but I need your help with the gangplank and the ropes,’ said Iris.
‘Of course,’ said Gwen. ‘But first, in honour of your maiden voyage …’
She pulled a bottle of burgundy from her bag and presented it to her.
‘Save it for when you’ve moored,’ she advised.
‘I will,’ promised Iris.
She ran across the gangplank and inside the saloon to store it, then came back out and grabbed the ends of the gangplank’s rails. Gwen reached down and grabbed the bottom of the other end.
‘Heave ho!’ cried Iris.
Gwen lifted the end up as Iris pulled the handles until it was vertical. Then Iris slid it inside the taffrail and connected the safety chain across the gap. Gwen untied the stern rope, coiled it, then tossed it across the narrow gap to Iris.
‘I’d come with you, but I’ve got Ronnie,’ said Gwen. ‘Are you going to be all right on your own?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Iris. ‘I need to be alone for a while. Hopefully, it will clear my head.’
‘Where exactly are you going?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Iris. ‘That’s the beauty of it. When I’ve been gone for a week, I’ll find a place to turn around and come back. Don’t worry, I’ll send you and Ronnie some postcards.’
‘Ring me if the boat breaks down, or if you break down, or if you need bail or anything,’ said Gwen.
‘Will do,’ promised Iris. ‘Let me start up the engine, then you can untie the bowline.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ said Gwen.
Iris disappeared into the boat while Gwen moved to the other rope and stood at the ready. A minute later she heard the engine rumble into life. Iris came out on the fore well, and Gwen untied the line, coiled it and tossed it to her.
They looked across at each other for a moment.
‘Do you know,’ said Iris, ‘when I raced the Bumps at Cambridge, it took eleven of us brilliant women to get us on our way. You and I have just done it by ourselves. Do you realise what that means?’
‘What, darling?’ replied Gwen.
‘That you are worth ten Cambridge women,’ said Iris. ‘Love to Ronnie, and mind the shop, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ said Gwen. ‘Bon voyage!’
Iris walked to the stern and grabbed the tiller. Slowly, carefully, she eased the Cecilia into the centre of the canal. She looked back at Gwen, blew her a kiss then throttled up the engine.
Casper, her neighbour and instructor, was watching with approval from his accustomed chair on the roof of his boat. As she passed him he lifted his pipe in salute and she waved, grinning proudly.
Gwen watched as the Cecilia slowly made its way down the canal and disappeared around a bend.
‘Fair winds and following seas, Iris,’ she said softly.
Then she turned and walked home to spend the rest of the day with Ronnie.