First Century

In the early hours of the morning, when the tunnels were still and silent, Jacob Wells was woken from an exhausted sleep by a sudden surge of intense warmth surrounding his heart. He lay quietly, concentrating on the sensation for some moments. It reached a peak, then slowly faded to nothing. Gently, he slid from the quilts without waking his wife, and slipped silently through the passage to reach his parents’ chamber. He knew what he must find there. He dreaded it, yet, at the same time, he welcomed it. His father, he knew, could not have borne another day like the last. Nor would Jacob have wished such agony for him, but his own heart was breaking.

The massive candle, always alight behind the arch of the ancient stained-glass window, cast a muted glow across the bed and the intertwined forms lying there so peacefully. His mother’s long, snowy white hair lay across her shoulder in a single loose braid, probably woven by his father when they prepared for bed two nights ago. The shaggy, silver mane had retained no hint of the red-gold of younger days. Despite that evidence of great age, they looked so youthful, somehow. The lines of sorrow, of laughter, of long life, seemed to have smoothed away. Disappeared. His father must have lain on the bed to take the woman he so adored into his arms for one last embrace, and his soul had quietly left this life, to join her in the next. It was right. It was beautiful. As it should be. A blessing.

Yet Jacob’s whole being railed against the fact. How could he let them go? How could he go on, without them?

"With courage, my son. You do have the courage. I know you."

"We must bear the pain and savour every moment of the joy. We will endure."

The dear, familiar voices were so real that he gazed intently at the painful, serene tableau before him, almost expecting to see movement. Then, at last, he understood. They could never leave him. They were part of one another. He was part of them. Always. Love was immutable, indestructible, and his parents epitomised love, in all its forms.

* * * *

"Father. Am I disturbing you?"

"Come in, Vincent. You knew?"

"I felt him go, an hour ago, but I thought you would need a little time."

Jacob watched his son, now in his early forties, as he descended the steps with the innate feline grace which was so like his grandfather’s. He accepted the comforting embrace gratefully. Vincent pulled up another chair, to join him at the bedside.

"Their bodies are worn out, but their spirit lives on," Jacob said. "You are very like him, you know."

"There could be no greater compliment, father. No higher goal than that. He was a fine man; the finest. If I am able to accomplish half of what he achieved, I shall consider my life well-spent."

Father and son sat for a while, supporting one another in a reflective silence, trying to marshall enough strength during this peaceful interlude to prepare them for the sadness of the day to come. The community would awaken shortly, to be told of this loss, and it would require enormous fortitude to help them deal with their grief.

* * * *

It fell to Jacob to relate the lives and achievements of his parents. But where should he begin? It would take a lifetime to tell it all!

His own son, young Vincent, though still bound by prudent restrictions, had not been raised in the rigid seclusion which had been vital for his father’s safety. Little Vincent, his great-grandson, just two years old, would hopefully have the same freedom as would any other child. In well over a century of tunnel history, perhaps that had been one major effect of changes. Certainly the security of the community was as carefully maintained as it ever had been, but the over-riding pressure to retain complete secrecy about its very existence had eased. There had been no sudden ‘discovery’ of the tunnel world and its inhabitants. No ‘media circus’ or major intrusion, no ‘invasion’ by the world Above. Rather, a gradual movement from those Below to ‘make a difference’ to those in need Above. As, over decades, Tunnel influences had increased and their position Above took firm roots, there had been a subtle, very gradual, partial unveiling of the origins of the ‘family business’ as his mother, Catherine, had whimsically dubbed their lives of service.

No one had organised meetings or committees to plan what would happen. As usual, tunnel folk had followed the paths of expediency - stepping in to offer help where a need showed itself, in any manner in which they could undertake to solve or alleviate a problem. In his grandfather’s day, it had meant offering a haven, a sanctuary in the tunnels, to the destitute, to despairing men and women, to abused and abandoned children, to anyone for whom the community could show a way forward, or give a time to heal, a home and a family, a place where they could ‘belong’. The principles had remained the same, always. The way in which they achieved their goals, however, had slowly undergone radical changes. Over the last thirty years or so, since Joe Maxwell’s retirement from public office as District Attorney, change had accelerated.

The close friendship between Joe and his mother had at last been extended to include her family Below. Joe’s wide network of contacts in the City, where he was greatly respected, had allowed him to smooth the path for the community, as their existence, extensively Above by then, as well as underground, became known in ‘official’ circles. But it had not begun with Joe; rather with a decision, based on slightly underhand motives, by John Moreno, more than sixty years ago . . .

* * * *

Vincent felt a deepening sorrow from Catherine. Her emotions had been trickling slowly downhill earlier, but now there was a torrent of pain and despair as he raced full-pelt towards the basement of her home. Her need was urgent. She was descending into an abyss of hopelessness. When he arrived, she drifted listlessly out to the balcony, and raised pain-filled eyes to his.

"What is it Catherine? What makes you so sad?"

She took a deep breath, turned away as if she could not find enough courage to look at him while she spoke, and shared with him the horror of the case which had been assigned to her, to bring it to trial. He could tell there was no slightest shadow of doubt in her belief of the man’s guilt.

"A father," she inhaled deeply in order to retain self-control, "beat his child to death."

Vincent had taken photographs from her hands, and the images imprinted deep, deep into his soul. He knew well, from the little ones Below, how some had suffered more in their brief years than anyone should in a hundred lifetimes. What he knew haunted him, called to his heart more and more insistently, to help those abused children whom he knew desperately needed his intervention.

Catherine had become immersed in her work with a single-minded dedication to obtaining justice for the lost child. She uncovered previous abuses of the mother, and the medical records of the daughter revealed that she, too, had been her father’s victim throughout her childhood. As Catherine proceeded, her understanding of the nature of the case grew. Initially, she had been furious that Maggie Nolan was to be offered immunity, in order to secure her testimony.

"She is an accessory to her own child’s murder," she railed against the proposal. But she was over-ruled. No testimony - no case.

Catherine Chandler changed, during her time on that case. It caused a profound alteration in her perception of how family violence was able to exist. How wrong she’d been, when she had condemned what she thought she understood, when in reality she’d had no concept of how these things happened. Her feelings toward Maggie had become a complete reversal of the rage and indignation which were there at the start. Now she found herself striving to support and help a victim. She sincerely sympathised with Maggie.

The trial had been long, complex, difficult and utterly draining, both mentally and physically. It left no time for any personal life, and Catherine had been completely unaware of how deeply Vincent was being affected. When things were at a low ebb, and she could see justice slipping from her grasp, Vincent paid her a brief visit. She had been a little taken aback at the vehemence of his tone, as he told her,

"You must continue to fight. That child’s suffering must not be forgotten. That child stands in silent judgement of us all."

And so for Vincent, for the child, for them all, Catherine had delved into her mind, bringing up resources she had not known she possessed. She went back to work far into the night, sure that somehow there must be a way, determined that she would uncover it. It was imperative that she succeed. She was elated when a ‘guilty’ verdict was announced.

When she took the good news to Vincent, whom she found standing alone on the bridge in the Whispering Gallery, her elation was not matched by his demeanour. A great sadness, for all the suffering children whom he could sometimes hear, here, but whom he was unable to help, had overwhelmed his spirit. She had been able to move that shadow, for the moment, but later, when she had talked with Father, she began to appreciate more fully the extent of Vincent’s distress.

His sleep had been chased away by nightmares. Wherever he went, he was haunted by calls, real or imagined; the pitiful cries for help from suffering children. Pascal had been worried for his metal state, when asked if he could hear those cries. Of all people Pascal would have been able to hear them, if they had been real. Several times Mary had been aware of his silent, lonely vigil at the entrance to the nursery chamber, as if he had a need to guard the little ones asleep within, to be certain of their safety. Many people had been disconcerted at the unusual breach of courtesy when a distracted Vincent had swept by with no greeting, no nod of acknowledgement. That was so out of character. He just didn’t do that. William had expressed concern about the number of meals he’d half-eaten, or completely missed.

Catherine had thought long and deeply about these revelations, before discussing things with Vincent. She realised now that although it had been of importance to make Richard Nolan pay for his crime, that did very little to help either his son or other abused children who were still in desperate need of help.

"We begin with our own lives," she’d said. There were far more effective ways for her to use her time and resources. There were more useful ways for Vincent to expend his great heart than in grieving for what he could not do. They had to explore the possibilities of what they could do. And so it began.

* * * *

Magie Nolan and her daughter Amy were the first. Long’s grocery shop, and the living and storage accommodation which were part of the property, became free when the expansion of both business and family caused Long to re-locate to larger premises. Catherine bought the building, Vincent organised, designed and supervised the re-modelling, and Maggie and Amy moved in. The first two who used the hostel were college students, needing financial support and a family home while they completed their studies. None of these first residents, and few of the subsequent ones, were aware of the secret entrance to the tunnel world beneath their feet. Several years passed before Maggie moved on, Amy married, and the community once again ‘reclaimed’ the entrance when two helpers took over the running of the hostel. In time, it became the most convenient way for young Vincent, Vincent’s grandson, to have safe access between Below and Above.

The second enterprise had been a small school. Not suitable for the care of very young children, but Father and Vincent had seen great potential for a dormitory-style refuge for some of the many teenage street boys who needed a home. There was no direct tunnel access, so it had been more difficult for Vincent to be involved. Evening visits, however, had been accomplished via the nearest exit, under cover of darkness. Two of the class rooms had been turned into bedrooms, a third became a comfortable lounge or common room. Extra bathrooms and facilities for laundry and cooking still left space for living accommodation for the couple who were to run the complex. Eventually, there would be room for ten youngsters, but they started by taking in three brothers who, desperate to remain together, had evaded the social services for fear of being parted.

By the time young Jacob was six, his mother and father had founded the first of the family homes which had been their objective all along. Places where young children could grow in safety, surrounded by love. At first, the adults involved with their care had been from the community. Mary, because of her love of Vincent, had gone Above for the first time in many years. She had taken several people whom she knew to be suitable, and they had carefully established the ethos, the principles by which the home would function. By the time she was satisfied, the second home was ready for use, and again Mary supervised until all was running smoothly.

Already in her seventies, Mary withdrew from the day-to-day running, but she ‘kept an eye’ on the children’s homes, long after her supervision was necessary. The older members of the tunnels in particular had a deeply-ingrained awareness of the need for vigilance. None had forgotten how Eric had become part of their family. An excellent reputation had masked the abuse to which the children had been subjected in the institution from which Catherine had rescued Eric and his sister, Ellie. There would be no complacency, no error in the choice of the people involved in the Wells’ establishments.

Gradually a pattern evolved whereby new staff were recruited mainly from helpers Above, or from those who were personally recommended as suitable, by someone who the Wells knew and trusted. Many learned or were trained as junior staff, then moved into positions of greater responsibility as they matured. A few moved Below, to help in caring for the tunnel children, temporarily at need, or making a permanent home there. Many had no knowledge of the tunnels, or of the people who lived there.

By the time Jacob reached his sixtieth birthday there were well over a hundred establishments, all different, all founded by his parents, and run by the Chase Foundation, the Chandler Trust, or the Wells Medical Aid Society. All directly evolved from the tunnel community’s efforts to ‘make a difference’.

The majority were family homes for young children. Some were temporary refuges for the homeless or for the victims of domestic violence. One was a ‘half-way-house’ for young people raised Below, who wished to study or to live Above. There was a school for the deaf, a research institute for Immunology and for Haematology. Many were ordinary homes which were let to needy families at an affordable rent, or in exchange for help in maintenance. There was an office for legal help in several of the poorer areas, where those who could not afford the usual high fees were given professional advice free. The variety and number of enterprises meant that a substantial opportunity for employment had become available for people who had ability but were hampered by a lack of formal qualification or education. The one criterion necessary for someone to become part of ‘the family business’ was that they had a good heart.

Just like Joe Maxwell’s. It was his ‘good heart’ which had pumped the fuel for the expansion of their work. Catherine Chandler had been a very wealthy woman in her own right, as had Margaret Chase, but the financial resources were not, by any means, infinite. The more capital was used to purchase property, the less there was to generate a return. As wealthy and influential people became aware, from Joe and by word-of-mouth, what the three philanthropic institutions had achieved, a very welcome, much-needed influx of capital seemed to happen quite spontaneously.

* * * *

Vincent had, from the first, involved himself directly in the acquisition, establishment and routine operation of each of the Wells’ children’s homes. To spend time with the waifs who were resident there was a source of great joy. He felt a sense of achievement, fulfilment, each time he saw a little one gradually restored to confident happiness by means of nurturing love and care. More than this, he simply loved to be with the children, and they returned his love.

With the exception of these visits Above, he continued to live a life of seclusion, in the tunnels. As the number of establishments grew, and the proportion of community members involved in running them lessened, many of the administrative meetings were, of necessity, held Above. The first time this happened, Catherine had insisted that no decisions were to be considered final, until Mr. Wells had been consulted. His absence today was, she told them regretted but unavoidable, and nothing could be cleared for action without his personal authorisation.

Armed with her copious notes and the minutes of the meeting, Catherine returned to their chamber, spread everything before him, and within minutes a rather heated debate ensued.

"But don’t you understand, Catherine, that continuity must be achieved somehow. Therein lies the children’s sense of security."

"I know that, Vincent! Sandra’s absence cannot be avoided. Michelle can’t be expected to cope without support; it’s essential that we move someone in temporarily to cover."

"Of course. But there are less disruptive ways of achieving that objective. Francesca knows all but one of Sandra’s children, does she not? Could we ask her to return temporarily, and have Margaret replace Francesca? That way neither home will be without someone whom the children know well, and each member of staff is placed where they are familiar with both the home itself and with its residents."

The solution was so obvious, Catherine could have kicked herself.

"Of course. You are right. In over an hour’s discussion none of us could find a satisfactory solution. You have done so in minutes, Vincent. Now we have a three week wait before we can implement your suggestion." Catherine sighed in exasperation.

They continued to go through the minutes of the meeting, with Vincent shedding fresh light on several points, and agreeing on many others. After nearly two hours they were both feeling tired, frustrated and dispirited.

"I wish you had been there, Vincent. We need your input, and . . ." she shut her mouth, firmly.

Vincent took her coffee cup from her, then pulled her into his lap. They clung together for some minutes until Catherine had calmed a little.

" . . . And, my Catherine?" he probed quietly.

Then it all came tumbling out in a rush.

"It’s divisive, Vincent, and I won’t have that!" she declared vehemently. "I feel as if you are being shut out; left behind and I can’t bear it. We are useless apart! All I could think about was that you were being excluded again. After all your years of devotion to these children, the door was being slammed in your face. Its not right. Its not fair, Vincent, and I won’t have it. I can’t bear for you to be treated so. I don’t want to bring everything to you second-hand. I need to be with you. And you need to be with people, not a pile of paperwork," and with that she swept the whole lot onto the floor and dissolved in a flood of tears.

He held her in his arms, rocking her gently, until the storm had subsided into intermittent hiccups.

"So, my love, again we face the same old impasse. The work must continue. If it cannot be done Below, then I must go Above."

"What?" She looked at him in astonishment.

"If I can get into a car to visit the children, with impunity, I can do so to attend meetings," he informed her.

"But . . . but some of these people are strangers. You’ve never met them."

"True. I am aware of that. I won’t pretend that the prospect isn’t frightening, but I believe your assessment to be accurate. Today’s course of action was indeed divisive. That prospect is far more terrifying, Catherine, than the need to make friends with good-hearted people who are trying to achieve precisely the same goals as are we. I think we can move safely in such a direction. Sometimes we must ‘leave our safe places’ remember.

Catherine didn’t know what to say. She was in a daze. He made it sound so simple. So straightforward. His courage was astounding, absolutely amazing. This was such a huge step, way outside the parameters of anything which he had experienced or undertaken previously in his whole life. That he would do this, even contemplate the idea, was extraordinary. She was choked with admiration, pride - and apprehension. Would he be safe? Could she keep him safe? She knew her husband well; he could be as obdurate as herself once he had come to a decision. His logic was irrefutable. Any effort to dissuade him would be futile. Catherine turned her mind to planning how best to go about this new venture, searching for possible ways to reduce the enormous stress it must inevitably place on him.

She must be certain that their presence Above would give no opportunity for discovery of their underground home, and she must keep Vincent’s exposure to an absolute minimum. Tunnel clothing would provide a comforting familiarity, but would the confidence engendered by his wearing smart Above clothes outweigh that benefit, she wondered. When in Rome . . . he needed to ‘fit’ into his new environment as well as they could manage, she decided. Only Catherine was party to his plans. What no-one else knew of, they couldn’t worry about. Father could raise objections as vociferously as he would, after the event, when they could no longer undermine Vincent’s self-confidence. Jacob was in the school room for a large part of the week-days, and that made secrecy much easier.

* * * *

With more than a little trepidation, Catherine went through the door which Vincent, strange but resplendent in a charcoal grey suit, held open for her.

"Good afternoon, everybody. Sorry to be a little late," breezed Catherine, fully aware that their tardiness was planned to avoid the pre-meeting chatter, "New York traffic never flows when you have to be somewhere," she smiled as they crossed the room. "For those of you who have not yet had the pleasure, this is my husband, Mr. Wells." By this time, both of them were securely seated together at the far end of the table, just before legs turned to jelly would have refused to support them any longer.

"I’m sure my wife apologised for my absence last time," Vincent began, "I hope this will not happen in future," he went on, "but I need to discuss one or two things arising from that meeting, before considering today’s agenda. Item three on page two . . . Everyone has their copy of the minutes?" He checked round the table, relieved that the many pairs of eyes had left his face and turned to their papers, just as his wife had predicted.

He and Catherine had agreed to get straight down to business, hoping that informal introductions, delayed until after the meeting’s conclusion, would give people time to feel more comfortable with him. As things happened, they took a break for coffee after the first hour, and those who already knew Vincent were, naturally, keen to chat, and the people who had been complete strangers at the start were well on the way to becoming friends, long before the end.

* * * *

"It has been less difficult than many Council meetings," observed Vincent, when the pair of them had collapsed in relief onto the couch, on reaching home safely.

"Of course," grinned Catherine, "nobody argues too much with the boss."

"Hm. I had hoped it was my skillful diplomacy," he replied, "Nobody informed me that I was ‘the boss,’ Catherine. Does the effect apply to wives, as well?" he asked, eyes full of mischief.

"Certainly, my love, but only if they are other people’s!"

"I see. I can’t expect the same reticence from my wife, then? I had just as well remove the ‘boss’s’ suit, if it is no longer effective," and he rose to do so.

He untied his mane with obvious relief, and shook it till it settled in its familiar cascade over his shoulders. Catherine was mesmerised. She sat on the couch watching every graceful movement as shoes, suit and shirt were discarded item by item and Vincent carefully returned his ‘Above’ clothes to the closet. Her temperature had risen by several degrees by the time he had done so, and she remained transfixed as a smiling Vincent came to stand before her, hands on hips, chest heaving.

"I’m just beginning to learn more about these ‘Above’ clothes and how they affect people," he teased, "Would turn about be fair play, I wonder?" as he knelt to remove her shoes . . . and her stockings . . . her skirt . . . and . . .

"Ooh, Vincent," as ‘fair play’ swept them both away, and the tensions of the day were left far behind.

* * * *

Before his retirement, Peter Alcott had been aware of the need to augment the medical help available to the community. There had been a younger colleague, who was introduced into the tunnels, and had served their needs well for several years. He had eventually moved out-of-state, in order to advance his career. Peter had found it difficult to find a replacement; he had to be very sure of the trustworthiness, as well as the medical competence, of any new helper he proposed to take Below. No suitable candidate had been found, and it was becoming too much for Father, at times. When there was an outbreak of chicken-pox or a flu epidemic for instance. He coped, because he must, but it was a strain. Father dreaded the day when there would be some accident or medical emergency which he would be unable to handle.

Finding a physician to suit their needs Above had been easier. A newly-qualified doctor, Lynn Mahoney, had done her internship at St.Vincent’s, then returned to join Peter’s team of paediatricians. Her skill, sincere care for people and her dedication had deeply impressed Peter; he persuaded her to become involved in the medical care of the children living in the Wells’ homes. Before long Lynn and Catherine had become close friends, and eventually Lynn had been invited Below, to meet the rest of the family.

Catherine had long since given up trying to prepare people before introducing them to Vincent for the first time. She’d found that words simply didn’t help, couldn’t lessen the impact of the reality of him. She had explained to Lynn that it would be necessary for her to keep both the tunnels and the community a secret, and that her husband of twenty years had an unusual face.

Lynn already knew a little about the world Below, from Peter, Catherine and some of the helpers, and she was deep in conversation with Catherine finding out more, as they entered the chamber where Vincent was reading to two little ones on his lap, one boy hanging over the back of his chair, and five more children who were sitting or lying on the carpet, around his feet. There was a chorus of pleading for more, as he carefully closed the book, promising more tomorrow, and reminded them all that their tea would be ready. Two of the older children each took a hand of a toddler, as Vincent carefully helped them to the floor, and as he rose to greet Catherine and Lynn the children trouped out amid ‘thank yous’ and ‘goodbyes’ to Vincent and ‘hellos’ to the two women. Lynn’s gasp of astonishment was lost among so many voices, and by the time Vincent’s attention left the children and turned to her, she had mastered herself and was able to return his warm handshake and greeting in a fairly controlled manner.

She had known, from the children Above, of their great friend, Vincent, who often visited to ‘play with them.’ He was guest of honour at their birthday parties, their favourite teller of stories, the one in whom they confided childhood secrets and whose advice they sought on any important problems. Countless times she had overheard, "Vincent said," or "Vincent wouldn’t like that," from child or adult, seeking to modify unwanted behaviour. It took her by surprise when she met Catherine’s husband and she very quickly realised that this was the children’s dear ‘playmate.’

Within minutes she understood why they were so fond of him. During her visit it became evident that he was equally well-loved and respected by the community Below.

He was eager to discuss when the scars on Annie’s face would be operated on, how soon Jason’s calliper could be removed, whether little Tony, so badly malnourished when they had found him, had further increased his body-weight and was Marcia, who had been mute from trauma, continuing to progress in her speech. He knew intimately the problems which each one faced, and used medical terms rather than a layman’s vocabulary to talk about them. It was as if she was talking with a colleague of long-standing, rather than with someone whom she’d just met. Lynn felt completely at ease in these strange surroundings, with this unusual man.

As Catherine re-joined them, the conversation broadened to include how successful Mrs. Stevens’ hip replacement had been, and how pleased were the children that her daughter, Janice, was now able to return to her position as ‘house mother.’ Whether young John ought to be released from his duties, and given financial help to enable him to take formal training in social work, now that his aptitude had become obvious. Listening, Lynn began to appreciate that the family’s personal involvement spread far beyond just her young patients. The staff were also personal friends.

A message on the pipes reminded Vincent of his promise that they would join Father in the study, for tea, so the conversation carried on as they moved down the passage, then ceased for a while to allow fresh introductions to be made.

"Ah, Doctor Mahoney. Do come in, my dear, and welcome to our home. Please, excuse an old man for not rising. It takes so long these days," as he stretched out a hand to take hers. "Doctor Alcott has sung your praises for a long time, and I’m so pleased to meet you at last," he continued.

"Lynn, please," as she smiled and shook hands. "I’m stunned at the home you have, here, Doctor Wells.

It sounded like a fairy tale, when Catherine described it, but the reality is even more magical," she told him.

"Dr. Wells is my grandson, young lady. Nearly everyone calls me ‘Father’ - including my grandson," he chuckled, "He’s ‘Jacob’ as well as I, you see, so its as well that no-one uses my name. Could get confusing!"

"Father it shall be then," Lynn agreed.

And so it was that strong bonds of friendship were formed. More and more often it was for ‘Dr.Lynn’ the call went out, rather than to the elderly ‘Dr.Peter,’ when Father needed expert assistance. Lynn was able to ease the strain a little by dealing with any day-to-day needs which were beyond the less qualified medical helpers Below. She became a frequent, familiar visitor.

* * * *

Lynn had been looking forward to attending her first Winterfest celebration, and at last the day had arrived. She had felt deeply touched during the candle ceremony, as the history of the community was related. She thoroughly enjoyed the fun and merriment which followed. Needing to catch her breath for a moment between dances, she sat down in a quiet corner with a drink. She raised her eyes over her glass, and her stomach seemed to do a somersault.

She found herself gazing into Vincent’s twinkling, vivid blue eyes, set in Catherine’s smiling face and surrounded by a mop of unruly chestnut hair. Her wits deserted her, though she vaguely knew that she should take the proffered hand, and did so. It was some moments before his words registered. Just about the same time she realised that she should have released his hand, having shaken it. Blushing with consternation, she dropped the hand as if she’d been burnt, and answered Jacob’s friendly greeting. At least, she managed an affirmative to his,

"You must be Dr.Lynn?" and was relieved when he continued speaking, giving her a chance to retrieve her equilibrium somewhat.

"You can’t know what a relief it was, when I heard from Dad how you stepped in to help my grandfather. I had expected to return home long before this, to allow him some respite. I had been feeling so guilty for letting him carry on single-handed, at his age. That letter took a weight from me, so that I could complete my studies without the constant worry."

"You must be happy to be home again," she forced the words past her constricted throat, through parched lips. ‘Not a brilliant response, as conversations go,’ she thought, ‘but marginally better than silence.’

"Its been so long," agreed Jacob, "and I missed everyone dreadfully. If I never have to go Above ever again, I won’t mind one bit," he confided.

"Are you home to stay, then?"

"For a while, at least. There’s one more post-grad. course which I must take, fairly soon, but I think it can wait for a year or so. You must have a very full schedule yourself, Lynn, between working at the hospital, physician on call for the children’s homes and all the time you give to help down here. It must be exhausting?"

"I couldn’t have managed it all, without Peter’s help. He’s used his position to ensure that my case-load at the hospital has not escalated beyond what is achievable, and two whole days a week I have an official release to work in the homes. It’s to allow for ‘practical research’ and to ‘gain paediatric experience,’ according to the paper work," she laughed, "and it has certainly been an experience! But my time down here . . . that’s my ‘RnR’ time, really. Its so wonderful to escape from all the pressures Above. I’ve never thought of it as ‘work.’ More like visiting friends," she mused.

"Come," he took her hand, "lets go and raid the buffet. I’m starving, and I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite after all that dancing. I was beginning to think I’d never get a chance to be with you!"

Her heart pounded. He’d been watching her? She followed his six-foot-two frame as he wove with a relaxed ease through the crowds of happy people, calling a greeting here and answering a well-wisher there, while keeping a firm grip on her hand, as if he was afraid of losing her.

Standing on the stairway, just beside the huge tapestries, Vincent’s heart smiled as he watched his son’s progress across the hall. Jacob’s words, whispered confidently into his father’s ear alone, had been,

"That’s the woman I’m going to marry, Dad. I’d better go and make her acquaintance." They had laughed together at the time, but both had understood that he meant precisely what he had said. One look at Lynn’s face, as she followed Jacob, confirmed for Vincent that there would indeed be another happy celebration, very soon. Catherine would be thrilled, he knew. But the story was not for telling, not even to Catherine. Not yet.

* * * *

Catherine had felt Vincent’s increasing unrest for over a week. She knew better than to press him; he would confide in her when he was ready. Usually, that would be after he had come to terms with whatever troubled him, or when he had solved a problem. He had learned, over the years, to ask her advice, or at least discuss matters, when it became too difficult to find a satisfactory way through what concerned him. Rarely did he exclude her from anything which was of direct concern to herself; she had learned to be patient. To respect his privacy. Within limits.

They had just returned from a small celebratory gathering in Father’s chambers. He rarely ventured far from them these days. Well into his eighties, walking had become such an effort, and extremely painful. Jacob had warned them that the old man’s heart was failing. His eyes still retained their merry twinkle and the ascerbic wit, which had always characterised him, was as sharp as ever. It was his body which had become so frail.

Lynn and Jacob had deliberately waited before sharing their news with Father, though they had told Vincent and Catherine some weeks earlier. Once Lynn was through her first trimester, always the most worrying, they decided the time was right to let Father know that he was to be a great-grandfather. He was overjoyed at the news, and full of the usual questions - as if he could not trust any other physician not to over-look some important factor. He concurred with Jacob’s unorthodox decision, to supervise Lynn’s pregnancy and confinement himself. No other doctor knew as much about the Wells’ unusual physiology as did Jacob, so he was the best person to care for his wife. There was an obstetric nurse living in the tunnels, and several good medical assistants who could be relied upon. The hospital chamber had become a much more elaborate, fully-equipped facility by now, and neither Father nor Jacob could foresee any possible contingency which might be dealt with more effectively Above. Everyone was happy for the young couple, and there was a buzz of congratulations and well-wishing over a glass or two of wine, until his visitors gradually drifted out and left Father to doze in peace.

Vincent had been very subdued all evening, completely silent while they walked back and now, as Catherine saw him reach for his cloak, she thought the time for her intervention had come, if he would allow it.

"You have been so quiet, Vincent. What troubles you so? Are you worried about Father?"

"Not worried, exactly. He is content. Happy. Everyone is doing their utmost to ensure that he remains so."

She watched as he threw his cloak around his shoulders with a grace which still had the power to affect her.

"You will not mind if I stretch my legs for a while?"

"Of course not," she hesitated for a moment, "would you like company?"

He felt the hope underlying her words, but he was desperate to let go the facade which he had been struggling to maintain, and for that he needed solitude, so he answered gently,

"I shall not be long, Catherine. You need your rest."

"I’ll be here, then. Take care," she answered.

They both knew the message. ‘I’m here for you, when you need me. Always.’

"I’ll be with you soon. Don’t worry," and he lifted her off her feet, to kiss her soundly, before vanishing through the doorway.

* * * *

As Vincent reached the perimeter he began to pick up speed, until soon he was pounding along the passageways, down, down into the earth as if he could out-run the chaotic thoughts which had been whirling through his mind persistently, increasingly, for weeks. Images and fears which had lain dormant for years, questions about his origins, what he was; they had all become irrelevant in the years of happiness and contentment. Married to Catherine, raising their beautiful son, his life had been miraculous. Magical Perfect.

He had been so thrilled to watch his son reach for his own happy life. The night when Jacob had first confided his intent had been the start of a union surely made in heaven. Vincent had rejoiced on their wedding day, to see Lynn and Jacob so deeply in love. Catherine, as he had known she would be, was overjoyed. They could have thought of no-one more suitable, more welcome, as a daughter-in-law. What could be more natural than that they would want to start a family? Everyone was so pleased for them, so excited about the baby. How could he possibly allow his own misgivings to tarnish their joy?

Gradually Vincent’s pace slowed. He had run in a huge arc and was now nearing the Chamber of the Falls. His thoughts, however, were racing as fast as ever. Was he the only one who could envision the dreadful possibilities inherent in this pregnancy? Even Catherine seemed oblivious to the dangers. Father must be aware, surely? He’d been very articulate about how foolhardy he and Catherine had been, to risk having a child. Had age clouded those memories? And Jacob. He had studied both his own and his father’s blood, looked into other biochemical anomalies. Yet Jacob seemed as fearless at the prospect of this child as was everyone else. Did no-one else realise that this baby could be born with a bestial face, fur and claws? And it was all his fault! Would Lynn be so horrified that she would turn from Jacob? Would he lose Jacob’s love? And what of the child? Surely the child would hate him, blame him for his differences?

Vincent sank down on the promontory above the falls, put his head on his knees, and wept. As the shuddering sobs intensified, an arm came around his heaving shoulders, and gentle voice voice asked,

"Vincent, oh, Vincent, whatever is wrong? What’s happened? Tell me, please. Let me help."

He looked round, to find Lynn’s worried face frowning at him.

"What if he’s like me?" The words burst from him, unable to keep them inside any longer.

Lynn was startled and confused.

"That’s what I pray for," she told him gently, "to give my Jacob a son who is the image of the father who he loves so much."

She sat quietly, holding Vincent, giving him time to assimilate her words. When he had calmed himself a little, and looked at her once more, she continued,

"Jacob’s warned me that we might not be so lucky, and not to be too disappointed. We might have a daughter, of course, even though Jacob seems certain it will be a boy. Really, all we hope for is a healthy baby," she told him.

"You . . . you’ve discussed the possibility?"

"Of course we have! Endlessly!" she smiled as she continued to rub his back, "Its pretty important, you know, our first baby."

"You . . . don’t mind?" still unable to really take in, and give credence to, Lynn’s words.

"Why ever would you think we’d mind?" she asked. "Everyone who knows you, loves you. What greater gift would there be for our child than that he should be like you?"

The tension around Vincent’s heart relaxed, his dreadful foreboding evaporated, his empathic acuity left no possibility for doubt, as he understood the sincerity of Lynn’s words.

"Thank you, Lynn. I’m so glad that you and Jacob found one another. He’s a lucky man. Almost as fortunate as his father," he teased. "I’m going to return, before Catherine becomes worried about my absence. May I escort you?"

"Good idea. I just needed a breath of fresh air before we turn in. Another busy day tomorrow."

* * * *

"Do you know, Catherine, I’m beginning to think that the only person who has any misgivings about my features is - me," said Vincent, as he prepared for bed.

"Why has it taken an intelligent man like you half-a-century to notice that particular truth?" she beamed in relief, "Haven’t I always told you how beautiful you are?"

"Ah," he said as he scrambled under the quilts to join her, "but you, my love, are biased," and he gave her a playful kiss on her nose, before pulling her into his warm embrace.

* * * *

Four months later, Lynn was safely delivered of a son. A small, but healthy, replica of his grandfather. When ‘young Vincent’ was presented to the community at his naming ceremony, the rejoicing was whole-hearted. And universal.

Vincent had carefully carried Father down, so that he could attend, sitting in his own comfortable arm chair, which Mouse had insisted was essential. Wrapped warmly in a comforter, surrounded by the love of his great family, the old man’s eyes shone as he watched his son conduct the naming of his great-grandson. It was to be his last venture to the Great Hall, but such an overwhelmingly happy day for him.

Catherine had never uncovered the true cause underlying Vincent’s distress those months before, though she had her theories. It was sufficient to know that whatever had occurred that night, when he had gone off to be alone, he had returned, a man at peace with himself.

* * * *

Not far from the Great Hall there was a fairly small chamber, isolated, far enough from the hub to offer tranquility, beautifully decorated and furnished. Not precisely a church, but a similar quiet retreat for those who needed one in times of personal turmoil. For meditation. To grieve. To find inner peace.

It had been referred to as ‘the Registry’ for years. Here were stored all the original old maps and drawings, many of which had been made by Vincent when he explored new territories in his youth. All the records of earlier pipe-codes, devised by John Pater and the first pipe-master, Pascal, and modified through the years by those who followed, were preserved here. The huge, leather-bound books where details of joining and naming ceremonies were entered also waited on the shelves for the next time when they would

be needed. It was a tunnel custom for family, friends and loved ones to contribute to a biography of each member of the community, orally at the funeral, and written down during the weeks following, to provide a permanent memorial for those who passed on. All effects and records pertaining to the history of the tunnels, an extensive, treasured archive, kept safe for future generations.

Now, it had become "Father’s Room," for here it was that they had laid him to rest. Shortly after young Vincent’s naming ceremony, his great-grandfather had slept soundly, peacefully, and his frail old heart had simply stopped. Kanin and his son, Luke, had created a tomb within the solid stone walls of the Registry. The craftsmanship was superb. The carvings, designed by Vincent and executed by Kanin, were breathtaking. It was where Vincent would come to sit quietly when the grief at the loss of his father overwhelmed him, in the sorrowful days following his death. In the months and years afterward, he came seeking Father’s solace or wisdom, when he was troubled.

So this was where he found himself, hiding his fear from the community, when he was as frightened, lost and alone as he had been at anytime in the last quarter century. He was remembering how Catherine had declared, a long time ago that they were ‘useless apart.’ This, their first real separation since their wedding, brought home to him how very true were her words. It wasn’t solely the loss of her presence which so distressed him; it was an unshakeable dread that she might never return. He knew it was an irrational fear, but it would allow him no peace. ‘Useless’ was a sadly accurate adjective to apply, for Vincent could think of nothing else.

"Oh, Father, how am I to bear this? She is so near. She needs me, but once again I cannot be with her in her need, because of what I am."

He covered his alien face with his clawed, furred hands and agonised about his ‘differences’ in a way which he had not, for years. Any ‘normal’ man would be with his wife at a time like this, and he so yearned to be there for her.

Both Jacob and Lynn had assured him that the surgical procedure was a minor, routine operation, and nothing to be worried about. For Vincent, there could be no such thing as a ‘minor’ surgical operation, not when it involved his beloved wife. Catherine herself had insisted that it should be done Above. There was a lack of expertise Below, and that meant bringing down help. They knew the surgeon to be very skilled, with the highest of medical reputations. As Jacob pointed out, they were lucky to have him, as Mr. Green was much in demand for far more complex work and it was unusual for him to take personal charge in such a straightforward case as was Catherine’s. But although they knew of the man’s professional excellence they did not, any of them, know the man. It was an unnecessary risk to bring him Below, Catherine insisted, unjustifiable when she would need to be Above for only a few days. Reluctantly Vincent had conceded, and this evening Jacob had taken his mother Above, to be operated on in the morning. Nine o’clock, Jacob had informed him, first on Mr. Green’s list.

The word’s ‘we’re useless apart’ kept returning to Vincent’s mind and with them came the memory of that first, terrifying venture into the world Above to attend an administrative meeting for the Children’s homes. Such excursions had become a familiar, routine part of his life in the intervening years. That initial, ground-breaking decision had been undertaken as a direct result of their need to be together. As they needed to be together now.

"Self-pity will achieve nothing, my boy." How many times had Father uttered those words to him?

"You alter what can be changed, and what can not be changed, you must endure." It had been sound advice, if not, at times, of much comfort. He would not endure this situation. It could be changed.

* * * *

As Catherine woke from somewhat restless sleep, it took her a moment to realise why she was in such unfamiliar surroundings. Another moment to see the familiar figure, reading in the chair at her bedside.

"Vincent!" she gasped, "What are you doing here?"

"Where else should I be, my Catherine?"

She sank back into her pillows, scarcely believing what her senses were telling her.

The door opened and a nurse bustled in to give Catherine her pre-med.

"Cup of tea Mr. Wells?" she asked brightly, placing one on the locker, "Sorry, none for you until later," she smiled at Catherine.

"Thank you, Janet. I shall enjoy it for both of us."

Catherine did a goldfish impression, while Vincent couldn’t help but chuckle, as he explained,

"Janet and I became acquainted while you were resting."

"Oh," was all she could manage.

"Ready?" and Janet opened the door, to show a trolley waiting in the corridor. Vincent scooped his wife into his arms and kissed her very thoroughly before settling her onto the trolley.

"I’ll be waiting here for you, my love," he promised, "hurry back to me."

"’Bye Vincent. I will," she responded drowsily.

"Be well, Catherine," he whispered and the smile vanished as they wheeled her away from him.

* * * *

Just over an hour later there was sharp rap on the door, startling Vincent out of the chair, as an unknown man bounced in.

"Mr. Wells? Mr. Green. All over. Went like clockwork. Be bringing her back shortly. Just making her pretty for you." He pumped Vincent’s hand.

"Catherine is well?" he sank down again in relief.

"Good as new. Up and jumping about in a day or two. Thought I’d pop in and tell you. Had to meet the rival for my wife’s affections. While I had the chance."

Somewhat bemused by these staccato fusilades of words being fired at him, and completely unable to make any sense of the last remarks, he stuttered,

"Your . . . your wife?"

"Clarissa. Clarissa Green, Winston’s. Raves about your blue eyes. Good work you do. Wouldn’t dare go home unless I’d repaired your Catherine properly," he twinkled, "Must go. Full schedule," pumping his hand once again, and before Vincent could gather his wits sufficiently even to thank him, he had vanished as abruptly as he had arrived.

Minutes later, a gurney was at the door, pushed alongside the bed, and Catherine was carefully transferred and tucked in. When they had settled their patient, one nurse took away the trolley, the other introduced herself as Tina, and offered to bring him a cup of tea.

"If that would not interrupt your duties, Tina. I would not wish to deprive a patient of your care."

"No problem. I need a coffee myself, but I believe tea is your preference?"

"Yes. Thank you." His eyes had not left Catherine’s face for an instant during these exchanges. "She will be alright?"

"Right as rain. She’ll sleep for while, till the anaesthetic wears off. It will leave her groggy for a short time, but if you have any concerns at all, just press the buzzer there and one of us will come, pronto. O.K.?"

"O.K." he repeated.

"Be back shortly. Oh - the menu there. Would you indicate what you’d like for lunch? One of us can bring it to you here. I know you won’t want to leave Mrs. Wells just yet," she said.

Vincent took up the paper which the nurse had indicated, found a pen in the pocket of his jacket, and ticked a selection from the lunch menu, as he had been asked to do. Tina returned with tea and some doughnuts, then he settled down with his book, to the sound of Catherine’s quiet, steady breathing, counterpointed by the rhythmic, soft clicks and background hum of the monitors. The tensions of the previous twenty-four hours, coupled with the relief of seeing his beloved safe once more, had taken their toll. Soon his eyelids drooped. Sleep claimed him.

He was woken by the familiar voices of Jacob and Lynn. He watched as his spare suit was hung in the closet, his familiar bath robe appeared on the hook next to Catherine’s and clean shirts, socks and nightwear went into a drawer. His own hairbrush joined Catherine’s on the dresser.

"You’re awake, Dad? Is everything O.K.? We already spoke with the doctor and he assured us that Mum is just fine. All went well."

"Like clockwork," a drowsy Vincent mumbled, as he once again gazed at Catherine, over Lynn’s shoulder while returning her hug of greeting.

"We just popped in to bring some of your things. Mum will probably awaken shortly, and we’ll come and visit later tonight. Is there anything else we can do?"

"Thank you, both of you. I’ve been so well looked after, there’s nothing more I need. I’ll be pleased to shower and change, now I have clean clothes. I feel rather dishevelled at present."

* * * *

By the following day, Catherine was alert, almost her usual sunny self once more. She was rather sore, and had a niggling headache, but these minor discomforts were of no consequence. She had Vincent with her, and so overjoyed was she that all else became insignificant. She had never felt so pampered, and the nurses had begun to tease him that he had made them redundant.

Gone were the formal suits, replaced by casual trousers and a light sweater. Vincent was soon confident enough to make his way to the nearby staff room to make the tea and coffee, not only for Catherine and himself but for the staff as well. Only once had he encountered the indrawn breath and startled reaction from a stranger, and Vincent relaxed enough for his curiosity to be aroused. It was rare for a stranger not to be frightened to some degree by his appearance; during a lifetime when very few adults had accepted him on sight he had come to expect, and dread, the negative responses. It was true that he had not ventured far from Catherine’s room, had not entered the more public part of the hospital which lay beyond this secluded annexe, but nevertheless the reaction, or rather the lack of reaction, was extremely puzzling.

Janet, the first person whom he had met on that initial search for Catherine’s room, was back on duty, and while they were changing the sheets together, he decided to investigate.

"Would you mind if I asked you a rather personal question, Janet?" Both women pinned their eyes on him, intrigued as to what was coming next.

"Fire away, Vincent. We’re both close enough to box your ears, mind!" she laughed.

"All my life, I’ve had to face fear in the eyes of those who have not previously seen me, yet you and your colleagues have made me welcome right from when I entered the hospital. I have been received here as if I were an ordinary, normal man."

"But Vincent you are a normal man," Janet broke in. "Far from ‘ordinary’ but . . . I know what you are asking. We already knew how you looked. We’d had that ‘shock reaction’ before meeting you," she admitted.

"Security cameras?" enquired Catherine.

"Security, yes, but we knew, before you were admitted, what your husband looked like."

Somewhat alarmed at the revelation, Catherine hastened on,

"But how? How could you know?"

"Standard security procedure. We are always able to identify a patient’s close family and friends by sight. It avoids embarrassing and stressful identity checks which would delay bone-fide visitors who need to be with their loved ones, and ensures that unknown and possibly unwelcome callers are challenged."

Vincent was still rather bewildered. It all sounded perfectly sensible, but the concept of needing to ‘screen’ those visiting the sick was incomprehensible.

"Why, Janet? Why would they be unwelcome? I don’t understand."

"We-e-ll," as she thought how to explain, "Supposing you were a celebrity of some sort, perhaps a famous T.V. star. Being chased by journalists, photographers, reporters and such is part of show-business, but its not appropriate in here. Stars may not want their family exposed to the media, and would not appreciate having reporters crowding the bedside. They can be very persistent, you know!" Aware from their expressions that she had inadvertently ‘struck a nerve’ she fell silent.

"Oh yes," whispered Catherine, taking Vincent’s hand, "we know."

"Spirko." breathed Vincent, closing his eyes in pain at those horrific memories. Catherine squeezed his hand in comfort, and his mind returned to the present.

"Do you know how the hospital was able to obtain a photo. of my husband?" Catherine was still worried.

"Not a photo. Mrs. Green is an accomplished artist."

"Clarissa! Of course!" exclaimed Vincent. Catherine looked at him, puzzled.

"Clarissa, at Winston’s, Catherine. She is Mr. Green’s wife."

"Oh, I see. I didn’t know." Her brow cleared as she understood that Vincent’s safety had not been compromised.

"I must go," remarked Janet, "Talk to you later."

They thanked her and sat quietly thinking over the conversation. Vincent became aware of silent tears trickling down Catherine’s cheeks and quickly but gently he carefully took her into his arms to comfort her.

"I’m so sorry. All the turmoil I’ve put you through," she sobbed, "I should have just done as you asked. None of this was necessary. Forgive me. I’m so sorry."

"Why, my love? Its hardly your fault if you were ill. Why should you need my forgiveness? You are upsetting yourself about something which was unavoidable."

"But it was avoidable," she wailed, "Clarissa’s husband could have come Below, and you needn’t have come here."

"Sh. Sh. Catherine. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, I’m sure. No-one knew it was safe to bring him Below. Your decision was right, based on the facts available at the time. Besides, look at all the opportunities I would have missed. The kind people I’ve met. The time we’ve had to be together without dozens of other things calling for our attention. Once you were out of danger this became an exciting, wonderful new experience for me. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it."

‘How does he do that?’ Catherine wondered in amazed affection, ‘He never fails to find the right words, to turn my world right when things go wrong,’ She smiled, but Catherine understood fully just how much courage it had taken for Vincent to be here for her, and she loved him dearly for it.

"It has certainly been an eventful week," she said, "but I hadn’t quite though of it as a holiday."

Shortly afterwards she woke from a nap to see Vincent backing through the door. As he turned she saw why. In his hands were two large ice-cream cones.

"And nobody looked twice," he smiled.

* * * *

For years Jacob had been studying the Wells’ blood, to find out its precise composition. They knew it varied from one to another person, and that it was always outside ‘normal’ blood types. It had been brought home to him how essential such research was, as a very young man. A dramatic lesson which he never lost sight of. Fate was fickle. Homesickness had driven him to leave Med. School for a week-end in order to visit his family. His timely arrival certainly saved his father’s life. His grandfather had managed to clamp and suture a severed artery, but not before the blood loss had been extensive. Vincent had gone into shock, and the prognosis was bleak.

"Oh, thank God!" was the greeting, as a second bed was swiftly shunted alongside the one on which lay his father, and Jacob urged on to it while a young medic tore his jacket and shirt from him.

"Are you sure he can take my . . ."

"No. No I’m not," snapped his grandfather, "but I think he can . . . It’s the only chance he has," the old man choked through a sob. By the time Father had finished this outburst, he had blood flowing from Jacob to Vincent. All they could do now was wait, hope the tests for compatibility were correct, and pray.

Jacob never forgot the haunted look in his mother’s eyes, as she sat day and night in constant terror of losing the man who was her very life. His grandfather seemed to age by the hour, as Jacob watched him tend to his beloved son, never resting. The whole tunnel world was pervaded by an aura of hushed grief, as every soul within waited, poised between hope and despair, for word of Vincent’s condition. Still a little dizzy from his own blood loss, Jacob could do little to help, but he knew that anyway those who were maintaining the sad vigil would not have left. They needed to be there. Not until Vincent’s eyes opened would any of them allow their own eyes, so heavy with weariness, to close. By far the most devastating experience of his life, of any of their lives, was the fearful dread as Vincent hovered for days, poised between life and death, and Jacob vowed that never again would any of them be in a position where lack of a sufficient store of blood might endanger life. He must persuade the community to divert sufficient resources from the work Above to enable their own hospital to be modernised and properly equipped. So frightened and shocked were they all that the council offered no resistance or opposition. By the time Vincent’s convalescence was complete, plans had been drawn up for the hospital chamber to be re-located directly beneath a building which Catherine owned, to enable a reliable source of electricity to be laid on. The site was close enough to the home chambers to be convenient, yet far enough from the hub to offer a quiet tranquillity.

Several years later, when Joe Maxwell had instigated the transfusion of capital to the tunnel trust funds, Jacob had at last been able to realise the dream of his youth. His own rather rudimentary research lab. had been superseded by a state-of-the-art research institute, staffed by many of the most capable specialists in their fields, and both haematology and immunology were represented. This happened many years after his grandfather’s death, but perhaps that was no bad thing. Father would have been terrified by the very idea of medical research into Vincent’s blood-line, and his terror would have been well-founded in earlier days. Things had changed.

* * * *

When Jacob was born, Catherine had registered his birth, with the help of Joe and Peter, who no doubt had to bend the rules a little. Sadly, it carried the mis-information ‘father unknown,’ but nevertheless he did have a legal birth certificate. He took his father’s surname later.

When he and Lynn decided to marry, they carefully calculated the risk involved in undergoing the medical requirements in order to comply with ‘Above’ formalities. Routine testing for the presence of specific diseases was unlikely to lead to queries about anomalies in Jacob’s blood, they hoped. Any unauthorised investigation without Jacob’s written permission, would be unlawful, his mother assured him. A further deterrent was clearly on his birth certificate, under ‘mother’s occupation.’

As things turned out, no one noticed the entry ‘blood-type W’ and the paper-trail was completed without comment. Eventually, a valid certificate of marriage, along with both parents’ birth certificates, enabled legal certificates to be obtained, when the births of young Vincent and later his sister Mary, were registered Above. These facts, perhaps minor in themselves, meant that all four of them had status as bone-fide citizens, and this would apply for future generations also. The likelihood of young Vincent meeting the horrendous situations to which his grandfather had been subjected was not eliminated, but it was greatly reduced. No one could query his humanity. He could not be abducted and treated as a lab. specimen with impunity. He had the right to go where he wished, the same rights as any other law-abiding citizen.

It wasn’t by any means easy. He was vulnerable to the stares and comments of strangers, constantly. Occasionally, he had been the victim of unprovoked violence. Never, ever did he go anywhere Above on his own. Nor, as a child, could he just pop out of a drainage tunnel to play in the park. But he could, and did, have excursions into the sunlight to play. By arrangement, a car would park outside a helper’s home, having tunnel access, pick up a few children, and another adult to supervise, and off they would go. To a park. To a museum. To the theatre. Wherever he was prepared to go, they went. Young Vincent’s whole bearing seemed to proclaim his normalcy. His attitude was,

"Why shouldn’t I be here, or do this? Everyone else does." And somehow, more often than not, he became just one of the crowd. It had not all been plain sailing, sometimes he paid dearly, but young Vincent had a far greater freedom than his grandfather had enjoyed. Within limits. After all, there is no life without limits, as his grandmother would tell him.

* * * *

It was unlikely that there would ever be another emergency like the one which young Jacob had met, when a risky live transfusion of blood from himself to his father had saved Vincent’s life. Every descendent from Vincent had had their blood analysed, and there were extensive records of which was compatible with which, and which was not. They had known, early in Jacob’s life, that although his blood was compatible with his father’s, Vincent’s blood could not safely be transfused to Jacob. The pattern seemed to skip a generation, so that young Vincent and his sister replicated their grandfather’s blood-type, while young Vincent’s son matched Jacob’s.

For years now, there had been a "type W, strains V and J" blood bank at the Institute. Any member of Vincent’s line could be safely treated Above, in case of an accident. Below, there was a secondary stock maintained in the fully-equipped hospital chamber.

Along with an unusual category of blood, Vincent’s line seemed to inherit his ability to heal far more quickly than the norm. They seemed to have a greater resistance to many diseases, but were more prone to succumb to one particular type of infection than was usual. Minor cuts and scrapes, if not cleaned efficiently, might become inflamed and fester. Investigations for the cause of the resistance to illness were ongoing; researchers at the Institute were optimistic that they would discover the way forward to new, more effective treatment for immune deficiency.

This was all a far cry from the intrusive, humiliating type of investigation which had been forced on Vincent by Hughes and Gould. None of the family minded the minor inconvenience of an infrequent visit to the Institute, to undergo tests or to donate samples. They had the right to refuse; attendance was voluntary and by request, so they didn’t need to refuse. They were confident that when a breakthrough occurred, their privacy would be respected. The laws of patient confidentiality applied to the Wells family just as they did to any other.

* * * *

"Am I intruding, father?"

Jacob Wells turned to see his son hovering in the doorway of the silent chamber. Everyone else had left after the small family ceremony, over an hour previously.

"Not at all, Vincent. I’d be glad of your company. Come and join me." and he moved along the bench, to make room. Both men turned their eyes to the wall, where hung the superb painting which Jacob had been contemplating.

"Mark has done a wonderful job of the cleaning and restoration, don’t you think? I don’t remember the colours being so vibrant, even when I was a boy," said Jacob.

"More than sixty years of accumulating grime, soot from the candle smoke, and in an adverse atmosphere; its amazing that the canvas didn’t simply disintegrate. I had no idea it was such a lovely work of art. It’s glow enhances the beauty, and the ambience, of the whole chamber."

"Well, Vincent, that portrait is a remarkably fine likeness of your grandparents, just as I remember them. The artist captured the unity of their souls, their love, and that never altered. He caught an eternity in one fixed moment. Quite remarkable."

He fell silent again, and gazed at the image, now sealed behind non-reflective glass, and took comfort from the knowledge that it would remain as it was, a representation of a love which was infinitely beautiful, and eternal.

"There’s a magic to it, somehow. I sense so much more from it than simply a two-dimensional painting; it has a spirit, a life to it, beyond oils and canvas," mused Vincent.

"That’s just what my father used to say!" exclaimed Jacob, " ‘Kristopher’s magic painting’ he’d call it, and mother would laugh, and tell him that it was ‘still dry.’ I wonder what the joke was? I didn’t ever ask them."

He turned his eyes to his parents’ tomb, carved into the rock wall of the chamber, just a few feet from that of his grandfather.

A whole year they had lain there together, just as he had found them that morning. A sudden pang of grief pierced him, as if it had been only this morning. He turned to the comfort of his son’s embrace, and whispered,

"I miss them so, Vincent."

"We all do, father. We are so very lucky to have known them, to be part of them, yet that is difficult to remember when we feel this huge emptiness inside."

There was a sudden scurrying at the chamber entrance, and a bundle of blue denim dungarees topped by a shock of golden hair burst into the room with a cry of delight,

"I’ve found you, grampa!" and little Vincent shot across the floor and scrambled his way up into young Vincent’s lap.

"And grandma Lynn says you forgot your dinner," he added, turning to Jacob. "Did you forget us, grampa Jacob?" Those wide, expressive blue eyes and the earnest expression carried Jacob back in time, forty years.

"Forget you?" Jacob leant over to kiss the little boy’s brow, "Oh no. I could never, ever forget you."

"You were remembering, weren’t you. Not brooding. Is grandma Lynn a ‘mother hen’? It’s she who should be brooding, then. You can’t be a mother hen. You’re a boy."

And having thus clarified his three-year-old view of the world, little Vincent wriggled to the floor. He ran to take Lynn’s hand and led her into the chamber, amid peals of laughter.

"I couldn’t keep up with him," gasped Lynn, "where does he get his energy?"

The two men rose, Jacob to enclose his wife in a loving embrace, teasing her about getting older, but more lovely each day, while Vincent swung the giggling little boy in a wide arc before settling him securely on his shoulders, then all four left the chamber to its tranquility and headed back to rejoin their family.

* * * *

It had been three years ago, when young Vincent had carefully carried his grandmother Catherine down to the Great Hall for a mammoth Celebration, even by tunnels standards. Already her body had been frail. She had been a slight, but very precious, burden. A fiercely indomitable spirit still shone from her eyes, and she maintained an important role in the lives of the many people who sought her counsel, grateful for her wisdom and advice. She had always had an affinity, an instinctive rapport with this grandson who was so remarkably like her husband, and he loved her dearly in return.

Sixty years of happy marriage was the reason for the gathering. It was Vincent and Catherine’s diamond wedding anniversary and the community were unanimous in making it a memorable day for them all.

Young Vincent’s son and daughter-in-law had presented their first-born to his great, great-grandfather, and Vincent had conducted the naming ceremony. The tunnel family had waited and hoped for forty years, and here he was, at last. Vincent. A tiny, squalling bundle with a cute kitten face on that day; now a lively, happy toddler who had effortlessly wriggled his way deep into the hearts of his large family.

"Tomorrow will come. We can only live each day as it comes to us, with its pains and joys and all of its gifts."

All must change; all remains the same.