back, as hard as they could. The giraffe did not move.
“So this was your favourite then, Dawn? You were seven when I did this, copied it from a picture in the encyclopaedia. I’m not sure how good it is. When I get to London I will check. I have the money, but now when will I find the time? My elephants are accurate, I saw several at circuses. I’m glad you like the giraffe, I thought you would like the long neck. I suppose you did!”
“I do now, Daddy. I love it the most now, because it has helped me make you notice me. I hope you can live your life more peacefully, now that you know I am always here. And Dorothy is too.”
There was a knock at the open door and the Reverend Reid stepped in.
“Evening, Mr Lindsay. My word, that is some Ark! Where did you get it?”
“I made it. For my daughter.”
“I did not know you have a daughter. I thought you were a single man.”
“I was married. My wife and child died. The Tay Bridge.”
“I am sorry to hear it. How old was your daughter?”
“Six months. I have been making it ever since. It is her thirtieth birthday today.”
“You have spent thirty years making a toy? For a dead child?” The minister was politely puzzled.
“It kept her alive for me. It helped me go on, when I had lost everything.”
“You did not remarry?”
“No. I never noticed another woman, after Dorothy.”
“Where are you from originally, Mr Lindsay?”
“From here, Minister. From Cupar. I lived in Dundee a long time. I was apprentice to old Mr McIntyre before I left. He taught me to shoe a horse, to work metal, everything I know. He left me his business. Had I known that, I would have come back and learnt the new ways with him. He used to keep hay for the horses, now I keep petrol for their replacements. These motor cars are a big change; I am having to learn a great deal.”
“Where are your wife and daughter buried?”
“They were never found. They have no memorial, except this ark. There was a fund set up to help the dependants of the victims; I went to a concert in aid of it. It was lovely music, for me it was my Dorothy’s funeral, she had no other. I always wished they would put up a memorial, but they never did.” Lewis wiped a quiet tear from the corner of his eye, hoping the minister would not see. The minister’s guide, who had been standing quietly, watched Lewis and leant over to whisper in Reverend Reid’s ear.. The minister straightened up and cleared his throat.
“Why not come on Sunday, and show the Sunday School children your Ark, and tell them about the little girl it was made for?” He broke off abruptly and coughed, looking around as though wondering what he had just said.
“Oh, what a lovely idea!” Dawn thanked the minister’s guide. “I think he will like that and it will help. I would like to be there.”
“Thank you. I would like to do that. And I think my daughter will come with me.”
“What nonsense. You have just told me she is dead.”
“Yes, she is, but she is here. Or at least, she was a little while ago.” Lewis explained about his musings and the fall of the giraffe. “So it was her favourite. I will tell the children.”
“You will do no such thing. I will not have their heads filled with fanciful nonsense!”
“Unless you tell it to them yourself” said Trynor; the minister’s guide nodded in agreement.
“Well, I could tell them the story, say I imagine she was here and that it is comforting.”
“She is with God. That is what you will say.” The minister was stern.
“All right.” Lewis wilted a little and looked at the minister. “Why did you call, Mr Reid? Can I help you in some other way?”
“A long story about a hinge to his gate. Concentrate, Lewis, it is good business. Then listen to us again.” Trynor stood back and waited.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t manage better,” the minister’s guide was contrite, “but he only occasionally hears me at all. It was really only because I mentioned Sunday school that he switched on. He is full of firm ideas that are very hard to shift.”
“It is all right. Lewis will enjoy meeting the children and seeing them play with the ark. It is a long time since children saw it, since he stood up