of Madoc. In this parting there was the image of his death.
‘Grace …’ Madoc said. She stood there quietly.
‘Grace,’ prompted Dr Reece, ‘say goodbye to your brother.’ Grace looked down.
‘Don’t be getting all emotional,’ her father chided. ‘Madoc will be back. There’s no need for anyone to get upset. What are you getting upset for?’
Madoc held out his hand and Grace shook it, still looking down.
‘Hold yourself together, please, Grace,’ Dr Reece said.
‘Don’t go annoying the bees,’ Madoc said to Grace. For reasons Madoc hadn’t explained and no one understood, he hadn’t gone near his bees since he’d come back from the war. ‘I want to come home and find them all alive, every single one of them. I’ll be counting!’
‘Oh, Madoc,’ Mrs Reece said. ‘Don’t tease!’
‘Your suitcase is in the back of the motorcar. Come along now, young man. You’ve got a job to do.’ Dr Reece patted his son on the back. He had put on a maroon and navy Welsh Guards tie to mark the occasion.
Mrs Reece rushed to the kettle, which was whistling hysterically, filling the kitchen with steam.
‘No time for tea, Mrs Reece,’ Dr Reece decided.
‘Oh, Doctor Reece, we can’t be seeing Madoc off without a hot drink!’
‘No time at all, Mrs Reece. Madoc, Mother’s put some Bara brith in your case. Give Ishwyn Thomas a slice when you arrive. And give him our best regards.’
‘I will, Da.’
‘Tell him I saw his mother. She came to the surgery last Thursday. I examined her knee joint and it is my opinion that she is walking much better.’
The back door was open; it was still early in the year and the air was chilly. Grace wrapped her wool shawl around her shoulders, holding herself within it. The hooked ham was swaying and the clean laundry hanging from the ceiling was flitting in the breeze.
‘Right,’ her father said, swelling out his chest. ‘One mustn’t keep His Majesty’s Army waiting.’
Then, almost immediately, Madoc had left and the house had a new emptiness – and Grace wondered if Madoc was really going off, or if a part of him stayed always here, always with them.
From the parlour window she watched him walk down the front path to the wrought-iron gate, his broad shoulders emphasized by the epaulettes, his brown leather belt buckled firmly at his waist. The iron half-moons on the soles of his boots hit the stone path with a tight, hard click. At the end of the path, he put his cap on his head, one hand at the front, one hand at the back, straightened it, then opened the gate, which squeaked discordantly. He walked sharply, backbone stretched exaggeratedly in the way men in the Army were taught to walk. He looked distinct, smarter, more powerful and purposeful than the other people milling around on Narberth High Street. He seemed ordained and restored by Her Majesty, or God, to a higher purpose, one of deciding and presiding over the death of others, one who fought evil with the goodness of rationality.
Grace sat on the windowsill observing Madoc stride up the street, past the dust cart, jovially doffing his peaked cap to people, being slapped on the back, ruffling the hair of a small child as if he was a hero among Narberthians, leaving for a quest. Her father followed behind, taking the long route to the car, the public one, past houses and carriages, a cart and pedestrians. Madoc stepped off the pavement on to the road, passed the Star Supply Stores and was gone. And he might not return.
A few days later Grace was standing by the kitchen door because her mother had called her. Her father was sitting squarely in his usual place at the head of the table, her mother hovering tensely nearby. In the centre of the table there was a boiled fruitcake.
‘Now then, Grace,’ Dr Reece began, putting down The Lancet and peering over his glasses, considering her.
The problem, Grace realized, with having a father who was a doctor was that he was practised at observing, and right now he was observing her.
‘Grace Amelia, your father is talking to you.’
Grace didn’t answer her mother; instead she walked over to the stove and began re-folding a starched tea towel to keep her hands – and her mind – occupied.
‘Grace …’ her father began solicitously.
‘Your father and I are perfectly aware that you are down in the mouth,’ her mother interrupted, before slamming her hand down hard on the tabletop to kill a bluebottle.