Foreword

Well, friends, this is a ‘first’ for me, as well as for Vincent.

Yep, another one! I’ve tried to be original, so I hope its a different ‘take’ from the others.

Perhaps this is not one for the youngsters, though I really don’t think there’s anything offensive or prurient. If explicit love scenes don’t happen to be your cup of Earl Gray, please, don’t read the story. If you do read it, I’d love to hear what you think of it. Personally, I’d have kicked a certain furry butt long before the end. I don’t have Catherine’s patience - - - -

Enjoy.

Edna.

 

Father’s Story

He stood, a darker shadow among shadows, motionless, rapt, every part of his being, focused, intent. Only the high cheekbones, nose and prominent muzzle caught a gentle rim of reflected light. The face was raised, eyes closed, as if in supplication to some heavenly being far beyond the concrete, bricks and mortar directly above him.

How long he’d been thus, immobile and lost in the precious sensations which filled his heart, gave joy to his spirit, he would have been unable to tell. He drank in the quicksilver nuances of happiness, expectation, indecision, relief, curiosity, affection – a myriad shimmering ripples of constantly changing shades, so beautiful, so compulsive, so – unattainable. Oh, how he yearned to be able to see the beloved, expressive face; how he longed to hear her melodic voice, once, just once more to sustain him for the rest of his days. Only one brief glimpse; surely that was not more than heaven could grant him?

A rosy glow of serenity filled him now. Her friends gone, Catherine had sunk into contented slumber. The hourly ‘All’s Well’ sounded on the pipes, rousing him from his reverie. Vincent turned towards home, reluctant, yet satisfied that all was indeed well, both Above and Below. His mind at rest, he too gave himself to sleep.

A short distance from Vincent’s chamber, Jacob Wells was far from sleep. The turmoil of his thoughts would give him no rest; had allowed him little peace for weeks, months, if truth be told. He feared for his son. No good could ever come from the concern, the obsession, Vincent was developing for the young woman from Above, whom he had helped.

Her physical intrusion into their lives had been brief, a mere ten days. Jacob had hoped that the effects would have been transitory, a temporary disturbance in their tranquil life. Now he was having to face the fact that all his advice, all his warnings, were in vain. Attempts to re-build the wall, breached for her easier access to her home, had been met with an implacable veto from Vincent. His seemingly pointless visits to the site were, Jacob had discovered, becoming more, not less, frequent.

A reluctant admission that, ‘I need to be near her, Father. I am in no danger, but I must be sure of her safety, even if I may not see her,’ was meant to allay his fears. It had done the opposite. It was imperative that he shield his son from the heartbreak that was sure to come from his hopeless pursuit of the impossible. But how? When all appeals to logic failed, all reasoned counsel was listened to politely, or with increasing impatience, and ignored. What could he do?

So many years had passed since his own love had betrayed him, but, how very sharp were the memories. All the pain of that dreadful time had been re-surfacing recently, as he watched helplessly while his beloved son was determinedly rushing toward a similar fate. Vincent’s voice re-echoed in his mind, ‘I cannot forget her. We are still connected’.

It had been a whole year before Jacob had found Margaret again after that first single encounter which had knocked him for six. A year spent searching constantly, re-visiting the place where his vision had first appeared. He had to concede that nothing, absolutely nothing could have diverted him from his own path to destruction. Logic held no sway over a yearning heart – not then and, it would seem, not now. Having found no answers to his questions, sheer mental fatigue allowed Jacob a brief, fitful respite, and he slept at last.

The time came, as he knew it must, when Vincent would no longer tolerate parental admonitions.

"Then I’ll be unhappy. I cannot forget her. Perhaps I have no choice."

Jacob Wells knew he had lost the battle and he watched in despair as his son, book under his arm, strode away in determination, to venture Above. The first of the fearful, interminable nights of waiting for Vincent to return home had begun. The hours slowly crept away, until dawn and its inevitable dangers Above, approached. At last came a staccato rapping on the pipes, signalling Vincent’s re-entry to the tunnels. Only then, with the release of tension, did Father realise how close to breaking point terror had brought him. Too overwrought to move from the chair where he’d spent the last several hours, he pulled over the nearest book, hastily retrieved his glasses, and used the few remaining minutes to compose himself to an outward semblance of calm, before greeting his son.

"It went well, your visit?"

"Indeed. Father, it’s late, you should rest. We’ll talk in the morning."

"Yes. I was just going, when I heard you had returned. I waited to bid you good night."

"Good night, Father, sleep well." With a filial kiss to his brow, Vincent was gone and wearily the old man took himself off to bed.

* * * *

Providence.

"Something which is meant to be."

She had hoped he would ask her to stay, pleaded for a different outcome.

"Is this the only way?"

Not really following his reasoning, she knew it led inexorably to their parting. She was stunned, numb, unable to think of words to remonstrate with him, to change the sentence.

The metal gate clanged shut behind him with the finality of a funeral peal (No – church bell).

‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls.’

She turned away, blindly stumbling through the entrance tunnel and into the park. Unbidden, much earlier words surfaced from memory.

‘Find someone, Catherine, to be a part of…’

I did, Vincent, I did. As the irony of his conclusion washed over her, ‘…be happy –’ the tears streamed, unheeded.

It doesn’t follow, Vincent. What follows is un-endurable pain, she thought, not happiness.

She unlocked her apartment door, wondering vaguely how she’d reached it, dropped the keys on the table, kicked off her shoes on the way through and collapsed, mentally and physically drained, onto the bed. She fell into the merciful oblivion of sleep within moments.

* * * *

Catherine stumbled through the next couple of days, trying to finalise or transfer cases in progress at the office. At home she dully went through the apartment, packing for her move to Providence but her heart wasn’t in any of it; Vincent’s words kept going around in her head, over and over. Her eyes were sore and swollen from incessant tears.

The terse urgency of a note from Father sent her pulse racing, as she dashed Below to find him waiting. In dread of what he had to tell her, she pressed him gently.

"Your message said it was urgent?"

Suddenly she realised, listening to his halting words, that Vincent’s disappearance must have been straight after his meeting with her. She wondered how understated was Father’s observation that ‘he was not himself’. Had she, once more, wounded him much more deeply than she had realised? But it had not, after all, been her sole decision, to take the new job.

"We decided it was for the best."

Only weeks before, Jacob Wells would have been relieved at the prospect of getting her out of Vincent’s life. It had been his prayer for months. Now, however, faced with the loss of his son, he had had to adjust some of his certainties. Even now he could not find it in himself to ask for her help directly, but she was his last hope. He knew deep within himself, not because of the exhaustive two-day search Below, but from some primal sense, intuition perhaps, that this disappearance was something other than the seeking of solace in solitude. The search for inner peace had taken his son from him before, and for much longer periods of time. He had come to understand and accept that this was Vincent’s way of coming to terms with hurtful aspects of his existence. This was more. Different.

"Why did you contact me, Father?"

What did she want from him? The satisfaction of forcing him to admit his need? No, not that. Catherine was not, he knew, a vengeful person. He braced himself for the admission, and forced the truth from his lips as he turned towards home.

"Because I know you care."

A wave of sympathy for the gruff old man came over Catherine as she watched the bent figure hobbling away from her. There had been times when she bitterly resented his opposition. She’d criticised his stifling over-protectiveness, felt defensive when faced with his express disapproval of herself, but yet - there was a grudging respect for his achievements; admiration of his strength of character, and she could forgive him anything in the light of what he’d done for Vincent. She was amazed to find a very real affection for him had developed.

* * * *

"‘But how could I forget thee! Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind to my most grievous loss? –
That thought’s return was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more:
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.’"

He wasn’t exactly eavesdropping. Well, not intentionally. It was re-assurance he was seeking, really. A desperate need to be sure, after the anxious days of fear for his son, that he was home, back where he belonged, safe, in his father’s care. As Catherine’s voice died away, he retreated, understanding as never before, Wordsworth’s sense of loss in the way only a parent could; but he’d had a reprieve; his child was safe, for now. He had Catherine to think for that. How she’d managed to find him, to rescue him from the men who had captured a new ‘specimen’ for their lab, he’d find out later. For now, he could rest.

* * * *

It was a strange thing, Jacob Wells reflected, the way life could turn about, make things topsy-turvy. For so many years his son had relied on him for guidance. Now, increasingly, he turned to the young man to find his own direction. Vincent’s voice was so often the one to give insight into a problem, to look behind the obvious and analyze the root causes, suggest effective remedies. Why had he not had the good sense to discuss his growing concern about Mouse’s inability to understand the concept of theft? He should have done so, long before he had been panicked into taking such patently inappropriate action. No one, and certainly not himself, understood and related to Mouse in the positive way that Vincent always had. How foolish to approach the subject only after he had made a hash of things. He knew that he had failed in his effort to make Mouse aware of what he had done wrong; he realised that both the council meeting and the punishment imposed had had no bearing whatsoever on Mouse’s views. It had been a transparently futile exercise in every way. Was it too late to take any remedial action? Were there alternatives to the route he had taken? A course of which his son quite evidently disapproved. Not that Vincent has said so – it was his silence that expressed his dissent. But then, it was not Vincent’s way to have challenged his actions in public; he would never undermine his authority in such a manner. Perhaps, in private…?

"You were very silent in our circle today."

"I had nothing to say – the problem is a grave one."

"You disagree with what we did?"

"It troubles me. The silence can be terrible."

"Not so terrible as what he would suffer if he were caught Up Top."

He knew from personal experience how dreadful were their prisons, and was sure Mouse’s community-imposed punishment was far preferable. But punishment was not going to develop moral awareness in Mouse. It would be no help in his future decision-making. Next time the opportunity to take something useful and apparently unwanted presented itself, Mouse’s ability to assess right from wrong would be no different.

As he was marshalling his thoughts to carry the discussion into these important areas, he responded angrily to a sudden interruption. Once more he realised how much more positive was Vincent’s response than his own. While he increased the child’s distress with his scolding, he heard reassurance in the quieter tones of his son.

"It’s all right, Ellie. Can you take us to Eric?"

* * * *

The long, uncomfortable hours of enforced idleness and the growing fears that they might remain trapped for longer than the air would suffice drew father and son into an intimate frankness that was both meaningful and productive. Things had to be said now, or perhaps never.

"Your voice is the truest, and the strongest."

He pressed Vincent into promising that he would lead the community in his stead. He knew the younger man’s nature was not to be overly assertive, or to dominate, and he hoped to make Vincent more confident in his ability to guide them, knowing his father thought him capable of doing so.

The impenetrable blackness was becoming more oppressive now and it was more difficult to breathe. Only the familiar voice and the physical contact, as Vincent moistened his parched lips with a soaked rag, kept his terror at bay. Lying within the embrace of his son’s strong arms, the painful bruising and cuts seemed less troublesome. He began to voice his regret at the many sights in the world Above which he had long dreamed of sharing. Those regrets were turned to pride, as Vincent assured him how he had indeed seen all the wonders, how his father’s words had made them all real, had made them come alive.

"No child ever had a better guide."

The drilling re-started and Vincent confidently assured him they would be free soon. Not long afterwards he felt the huge form shield him once again, as an ear-shattering explosion shook an avalanche of stones and debris from the rock faces which surrounded them. Then he fainted.

A brief return to consciousness soon allowed him to see Vincent and Catherine above him. He could see! He could breathe! They were free!

He struggled to keep alert long enough to thank Catherine and Mouse, before he faded away again into a daze. He felt himself rolled onto a stretcher and carried away.

It would be a long time before Jacob Wells forgot the sheer terror of coming so close to death in the cave-in; he would never forget the strength and support of his son, who had brought him through the ordeal safely. He thought long and deeply about the bond, which had enabled Catherine to know that they were trapped, and her courage and love in securing their release.

The first image his eyes registered when Vincent had carried him into the light was imprinted. That loving embrace silhouetted above him, as relief overwhelmed reticence and the young couple clung to one another, desperate in their need to be together, remained with him. Again he railed at the cruel circumstances which kept them apart; would always keep them apart.

* * * *

One evening a few weeks later, Father shuffled across the study to greet Vincent, who was just coming down the stairs. He stopped in his tracks, halted by utter astonishment. He knew his eyes were not seeing what he thought they were. It could not be true! When the figure behind Vincent came into the light and spoke to him, he felt faint with shock. After twenty years without any word – these words came from, "…Devin?"

Sheer incredulity prevented any normal response. What was a ‘normal’ response, on beholding someone whom you had believed to be dead, for many, years? Did he have any idea of the pain he’d caused? Father wasted very little time before enlightening him! A sarcastic response made him realise how inappropriate his scolding was, but they agreed to start over, begin again, more amicably. Things went from bad to worse though, until, as always, the two were at loggerheads once more.

Now, as then, Father left no opportunity for any explanation to interrupt his tirade. Now, as then, Devin resorted to the only defence possible. Unable either to retaliate or to withstand the relentless barrage of criticism, he retreated. Too late, the old man realised his error and his earnest, "Please!" fell on deaf ears. Devin was gone again.

* * * *

"You were there for more children than I could name, but not for Devin. How could you turn him away when he needed you so?"

At least there was the consolation that Vincent did not exonerate Devin from all blame; he had referred to ‘both of you’. But dear God, had he really behaved as Vincent had intimated? Those honest eyes were searching his face, waiting for an explanation. Pinned by that scrutiny, he knew there was nowhere to hide. He felt exposed and vulnerable. Again came the puzzled query:

"Why, Father?"

That was a question for which he could not begin to find a ready answer, obscured as it was under layers of tangled emotions and difficult circumstances which he had been faced with so long ago. He had muddled his way through, then, as best he could. Things were no clearer now, but with Vincent’s need to understand his actions, he began to fumble through his memories. It was a sorry state of affairs, to be sure, but Vincent’s angry bewilderment had to be addressed. He was shocked to the core to realise the truth of the accusation. He had, with no intention of doing so, shut Devin away from paternal love. His intent had been to shield him from the isolation of being ‘different,’ to enable him to be accepted as just another member of the community, to give him parity with his peers, without the stigma of his birth, without the burden of being Father’s son.

The irony of the way he had lavished love and attention on one son, to help him to come to terms with his uniqueness and withheld it from the other, for similar reasons, hit him hard. He tried to defend himself, citing the dangers to which Vincent and the community had been exposed because of Devin’s rash escapades.

"You don’t know anything about what happened that night," thundered Vincent. The emphasis of a single weighty blow to the desktop from a powerful fist made Father jump, but the frustrated anger was justified, he knew. He couldn’t talk his way out of it this time, couldn’t prevaricate. Not now. Jacob Wells had to face the shame and guilt, admit to his failures and hope that it was not too late to salvage at least some of the wreckage left in the wake of his errors. Any attempt to avoid the truth now would risk the alienation of both of his sons.

No one had a clearer sense of justice than Vincent, but it was always tempered with empathy and sympathetic understanding of motive. Perhaps he could view the young man which Jacob had been then, with compassion? Lack of experience or wisdom would not be looked upon as malice, and the desperate need for comfort, for solace, would be understood. His mistakes had not been from cruelty, however misguided he’d been, but the repercussions were woundingly cruel.

"Devin is – your son!?"

Vincent saw the reluctant nod of confirmation and rocked back in astounded shock, at such an enormous revelation – and one which he would never have though of, not in his wildest flights of imagination!

Jacob waited in trepidation, and watched as Vincent sought the support of the nearest chair, lowering his head to his hand, in profound silence. The whirling cogs and wheels of Vincent’s thoughts raced inaudibly. Jacob could do nothing now, say nothing, to affect either their direction or where they would come to rest. That mighty intellect would be swiftly reviewing all the new knowledge; co-relating it to what he had known before, and seeking order amongst the present chaos of thoughts.

There followed an eternity of shrieking tension, while Jacob’s stomach knotted into ever tighter, painful spasms and he fought for every breath. His eyes were locked fearfully on Vincent.

Would he be condemned? Would there be enough in mitigation for a pardon? He knew there could be no going on, if he had lost the love and respect of this man. He could do no other than hope, trust in Vincent’s compassion, and wait . . .

He was startled, when Vincent unexpectedly shot out of his seat, swiftly scooped up his cloak in passing, and with a brief, "I will return shortly, Father," swept out of the chamber and disappeared.

Vincent had always been prone to lengthy deliberation before reaching a conclusion. It was to be expected. At least he hadn’t raged at him, berated him for his treatment of Devin – yet. Sighing heavily, Father returned to his desk in his own chamber, and waited. Waited, for over an hour.

When Vincent brought it to him, Father mutely and meekly, donned his own warm cloak and was glad of the supporting arm as he was led through the complex route to the park gate. Without question or reply, the pair adjusted their hoods against the night air, and shortly afterwards Jacob found himself gazing at the carousel horses. His puzzled look turned to Vincent, who indicated with a finger on his lips that he was to remain silent. They listened as a rattling of the shutters which enclosed the ride died away and voices became clear enough to understand.

"Father was angry with me for fighting. A few days later we came here. It was my idea. It worked like a charm, but something went wrong."

Listening, Jacob Wells at last acknowledged how badly he had misjudged Devin. The hurtful accusations he had hurled at the boy had been about as far from truth as could be. Devin’s heartfelt atonement for his injustice to Vincent had been turned into something unbearably ugly. The genuine love and caring between the brothers, so clearly shown in the way each had saved the other that night, had been besmirched by his own twisted, false perceptions. Instead of nurturing the good in Devin, he had blindly and heartlessly denigrated it into something bad. How could a teenaged boy have been expected to cope with such rejection, such overwhelming injustice? Now he understood Devin’s flight many years ago, and his reluctance to return. Vincent had been right. Within a very short time of Devin’s return he had again begun to criticise, without finding out the facts. He could have destroyed Devin’s pride in saving the lives of a mother and child, without a thought that there had been no ‘qualified’ medical help available. Yes, his son was headstrong and impulsive. How should he be otherwise? His father had been just so as a young man. Who was it who had expected to make the whole world Above change its course, on his say so?

Was there any way to bridge the rift between them?

"It’s a little late for that, old man."

Jacob’s heart sank.

"It’s only late if you want it to be," Vincent, as ever, finding the oil to keep things running smoothly.

As Catherine and Vincent discreetly retired, Jacob Wells risked all, in an attempt to some way alleviate the pain he’d caused both Devin and himself.

"Perhaps it will make you hate me even more, but I think you deserve to know the truth, Devin." He took a deep, steadying breath, and continued, "…my son."

As Devin took one hesitant step, then a second, towards him, he began to tell the young man of his parentage, his roots, and his history. The foundation he had lacked all these years was put into place. The rootless drifter he had been now had a name, a family, and a place where he belonged, a place to come home to.

Jacob Wells was profoundly grateful to both Vincent and Catherine. Without their intervention he would have driven his son away, for good, this time. Instead, they had laid a firm base on which to build a relationship. It would take time, but he was confident it would be so. It was only too late if you allowed it to be.

The parting, when it came, was painful, to be sure, but he knew it was not final. Devin would return.

* * * *

There had been a snowstorm in the tunnels, early that morning. It seemed every single helper had wanted to be first to bring or send the wonderful news – but every member of the community had wanted to read it for themselves and the flurry of papers was soon distributed far and wide through the chambers. All bore the welcome headline, ‘Court Blocks Burch Tower’, and seldom can an article have been so eagerly pounced on, or so avidly perused.

Catherine herself had brought the latest issue. There was a hidden dimension to that piece of news, for Vincent and herself. Her intention to halt the construction, by means of a loveless marriage to Elliot Burch, had failed. In spite of his vow to ‘do anything to make you happy’, the one thing she had asked for, he had refused to give. In her re-doubled efforts to find some way to thwart his project, she had uncovered his fraudulent manipulations to prevent a lawsuit being heard. It was enough.

"I thought I would never see your face again," Vincent husked.

"It was the hardest thing I’ve done in my life," she told him.

"And the most noble," he added.

As he spoke, she knew he understood. It was not some lack of depth in her love for Vincent which had sent her to Elliot, but a greater love which had driven her on.

"Your strength saved us all."

* * * *

No one had taken much notice at first. The sound from city maintenance workers busy with subways, service tunnels, roads, re-modelling or modernisation of buildings; these were frequent occurrences and, although they were always carefully monitored by the sentries, it was a very rare event for any action to be needed in order to maintain the security of the world Below. Even when action was necessary, the bricking-up of a tunnel or two or a changing of the ways was enough. It had always been so. While tunnel folk were never complacent, it was irritation, rather than fear, that such circumstances evinced. Until now.

It had been going on for weeks. Drilling, blasting, huge excavators biting mighty chunks out of the bedrock, deeper, and deeper yet. Before long it had become obvious that this new building was to be larger than any previously erected, and that its roots would go deeper than any other foundations. The deeper the excavations, the closer they came to the community’s home. The nearer they approached, the louder the explosions, the more extensive became the cracks and fissures in the upper levels. Uneasiness and irritation had become concern, then worry, and now the prospect was really frightening. Some areas were already unsafe. Mouse estimated that the upper levels would be breached within a week. No one was sure precisely how many levels would be exposed, or damaged beyond repair.

Jacob Wells had desperately tried to avert the spread of fear into panic, by directing everyone’s thoughts towards possible solutions to the dilemma. There had been brief hopes. Jamie spoke of re-locating to a series of unused chambers she’d discovered but Vincent knew them to be prone to flooding. Mouse had devised plans to flood the worksite by diverting an underground river. The concept was brilliant in theory, but completely impracticable. His next solution proved to be nearly disastrous.

Fortunately Catherine had been able to extricate him from his latest predicament, but it had been a close call. Mouse could have well been re-housed – in a prison Above!

Elizabeth flatly refused to move from her home and fears for her safety were growing.

As one solution after another had to be discarded, they gradually realised they were utterly helpless. There seemed to be no way to prevent the destruction of the world Below. Father was in despair.

"It’s all being taken away from us, Vincent. The work of lifetimes, everything we’ve built."

How he wished he could have faith in the response.

"What’s lost can be found again, built again. As long as we have each other, our world will survive," his son assured him.

The last hope for a reprieve lay with a young attorney who had been at law school with Catherine. She headed an organisation which was trying to bring a class action against Elliot’s firm, to halt the building project by means of community opposition, but she was forced to abandon the suit when she was publicly discredited.

Reluctantly, Father was making arrangements to send the children to be cared for Above, in the homes of various helpers whom he knew would give them shelter. Then he would need to devise plans for the adults. The problem of Vincent’s well being he had shelved for now. Vincent. He put his head in his hands in utter despair. What was to become of . . .

An anguished roar reverberated down the tunnels. Grabbing his cane he hastened towards its origin. Not far from the park entrance he found his son, slumped on the floor, back against the tunnel wall, knees dawn tightly to his chest. He was absolutely distraught, his eyes glazed with pain.

"Great heavens! Whatever’s happened?"

He threw his cane aside and awkwardly lowered himself to the floor beside Vincent and pressed the shaggy head to his shoulder, wrapped his arms as far around the powerful torso as he could, and rocked him gently for a while, till the heaving sobs became less intense.

"Tell me."

Jacob thought he must have misunderstood, at first. The words didn’t make sense. When it became clear, his emotions were in turmoil. Rage, that his son should be hurt so deeply; relief, that the tunnels would be saved; shame and guilt, at the price to be paid for their safety; and an overwhelming love and admiration for the young woman who was prepared to pay that price, to keep his son safe.

"She can’t do that, Vincent. I won’t allow it."

"You cannot stop her, Father. It is Catherine’s decision, and she is adamant. She will bargain with Elliot Burch, to stop the tower being built. We will never see her again. I’ve lost her."

The bleak, hopeless tones in Vincent’s voice wrenched at Jacob’s heart and he came to a decision. He would go Above, to Catherine, and dissuade her from this obnoxious course of action. It was nothing other than prostitution, to barter herself so. A noble act, but misjudged, immoral. He would tell her so, in just such harsh terms if he must, but he would stop her.

And if he succeeded? What then? The majority of his family members had been rejected, abused or simply did not ‘fit’ Above. The children. Were they to return to the streets and institutions, abusive or uncaring relatives? And what of those who had not yet found sanctuary below? So many needing their help. The elderly. Were old Sam, Elizabeth, Narcissa, to end their days in some alien care centre Above? Mouse? It would quite simply destroy Mouse, to remove him from the support of people who loved him and thrust him into the world Above. He would be completely unable to cope. Would he be incarcerated in some facility for the mentally impaired, for life, because no one Above could understand him? And Vincent? He might survive, but he could never live without home and family. Pascal, Rebecca, Jamie – the faces flashed across his mind’s eye, as he envisaged the disastrous consequences to each valued member of the community; each he knew, would have little or no value to the world Above.

As he considered the bleak prospects for one after another of his family, he began to appreciate how and why Catherine had arrived at her decision. He had no right to challenge it, in the face of the alternatives. Vincent already understood that. All Jacob Wells could do was to stand aside and watch as his son’s anguish consumed him. He could try to console him, offer what support he could, but he knew it would be futile to pretend there would be any way to alleviate his grief. He had travelled this path himself. He would have done anything in his power to shield his son from the same route, but he was powerless to change the course of events.

Wearily, father and son made their way back to the hub. They were silent, each slumped in a chair and immersed in their own painful thoughts, the epitome of despair. Oblivious to the sound of running feet in the passage, they could not miss the breathless shouts as Kipper pelted down the stairs, almost fell across the room in his urgency to get his message in front of them. They looked in stunned disbelief at the headline, as Kipper panted, clutching the desk for support, while he tried to get his breath back.

"She’s done it, Father! Somehow, Catherine has found a way!" cried Vincent and the dejected ‘still life’ erupted into a flurry of elated hugs and tears. More and more people poured into the study, waving newspapers and all clamouring at once. The pipes were drowned out, but Pascal’s message had travelled to all corners of the tunnels by then.

At last, several hours later, when all had quietened and most were enjoying the first untroubled rest in a long time, Vincent had before his eyes the vision he had thought he was never to see again. His world was safe, standing in front of him. Catherine.

* * * *

"We’ll find her for him, Vincent. I know we will."

Catherine did find her, but not in time. Anna was dancing at her wedding, while Dimitri was dying, Below, in the tunnels.

Jacob Wells sat in stunned disbelief, beside the body of the young man who had been so full of determination, so full of life and love, such a short time before. His old microscope had forewarned him, but he had hoped . . .

"Dear God, help us all," he prayed. Eventually his mind took in what Vincent had said. Three of the children were sick. The horror, which had paralysed thought and action, now prompted urgency; to take whatever measures were possible. His thoughts raced. Quarantine. Vaccine. Drugs. IV’s. Warn the helpers. Prevent panic. Explain to every one what was needed, how to limit the spread, what to expect. The responsibility for the welfare of the entire community once again rested heavily on one man’s shoulders. There was no room for error. Lives depended on his direction. He took control in an outwardly confident, authoritative manner, which hid his vulnerability, his fear of failure, the frantic mental checking and re-checking in case he had over looked some vital detail. Only Vincent surmised how very frightened was Jacob Wells, under that veneer of calm. Only to Vincent had he confided the true extent of the danger. Untreated, almost certain fatality. Even with antibiotics survival was far from certain.

He braced himself for the meeting with the tunnel folk. There was little time to prepare; he would have to think on his feet. He must outline clearly what needed to be done, while fielding questions honestly, whatever was thrown at him. Above all, he must keep tight control and give just enough emphasis on the risks to ensure reliable compliance with preventative measures. Too much, and fear could turn to panic, in such a volatile situation.

When he had described the symptoms, he stressed the need for isolating the sick, and was interrupted by a query about vaccine. He explained that after exposure it was too late to vaccinate, but drugs may help and a supply was already arranged.

"Enough for everybody?" was the next question. Again he explained how contagious the disease was. This time Jamie’s offer to tell Pascal of the need to isolate themselves gave an opportunity for illustrating his point.

"Use the pipes, Jamie. You’ve been exposed. Pascal hasn’t. You must not go to him."

Suggestions and offers of help began to come from all directions at once, but a firm voice raised above the hubbub was enough to restore order.

"We will need all of you," and his quiet admission that he, too, was frightened helped the others to control their fear. Eric, with the forthrightness of childhood, asked the question all wanted answered.

"Are we all going to die?"

That was a tough one, but he managed. He admitted that some were indeed going to be very sick, and used Eric’s questions to re-iterate what ‘quarantine’ meant. But he desperately wished he could have avoided the confrontation as the two siblings were parted. Ellie was sick. Eric was not. The incident dramatically showed what Father was trying to convey, but poor Eric did not understand. His defiant, ‘I hate her!’ cut like a whiplash.

He tucked Ellie into bed, offering optimistic words of comfort; words he himself did not really believe.

"If the drugs don’t arrive soon . . . "

"They will, Father," Vincent assured him. They did.

To his horror, so did Catherine. Remonstration was pointless. She was here. The risk . . .

"Is mine to take," she had said. She comforted Ellie, and was there with her at the end. He was so grateful for that. Heartsick that he’d ‘let’ a beautiful child die, exhaustion and grief began to overwhelm him.

Vincent spared him from having to tell Eric what had happened. It was also Vincent who firmly pointed out that others in his care were recovering. That he was needed both for them and to help the lost, grieving little boy to find himself. He must support Eric in his loss, and relieve him of the burden of guilt about his hurtful, untrue words when he was parted from his sister.

Later, when the crisis was over and Catherine was about to return Above, Father took comfort in her sincere words of praise. He felt Vincent’s grasp on his shoulder, endorsing what had been said. He basked in the warmth of Catherine’s spontaneous kiss to his cheek. He realised they had weathered another storm; the tunnel world had survived, but his heart ached for Ellie, and for the star-crossed lovers, as he dismantled the unfinished game of chess, then, on a whim, set the men in position once more, ready for a fresh game. Vincent would return shortly. Perhaps . . . ?

* * * *

Cant. Sheer, hypocritical cant, Jacob Wells berated himself internally as he listened to the words issuing from his own mouth.

"For the safety of the community, we cannot harbour a criminal."

Pompous ass, he reflected, you know many of us have fled from the so-called ‘justice’ of the world Above. But as he listened to Kanin’s impassioned pleas and explanations, he knew the wisdom of Vincent’s words. They had been unaware that this young man had indeed been carrying an enormous burden for many years, sharing it with no one, until now. He’d coped, in daily penance for one youthful mistake, which had had horrendous consequences. He had killed a child.

And the mother? Not seeking vengeance as he’d thought initially. No. She too desperately needed closure. She was haunted, still, by the tragedy and it was ruining her life. It was imperative that these two people face one another, come to terms with what had happened, or there could be no peace for either.

He sympathised with Catherine. She was just as uncomfortably perched on the horns of this same dilemma. To face the woman’s distress, knowing she had the means to alleviate it, yet to withhold the information – so very difficult for the honest, compassionate young attorney. She must feel a traitor on so many levels; to her own ideals; to Olivia and Kanin; to the oath of her office; to the bereaved mother. He well understood how she was pulled in all directions, with no clear way forward.

"Ten other desks," she railed at Vincent, "Why did this have to land on mine?" The question had been rhetorical, but his answer gave her pause.

"So you can help him."

She knew Kanin to be a good man. She knew nothing could return the woman’s son to her. What was the point in pressing charges? Where was the justice in that?

Vincent’s quiet wisdom had subtly changed the objective. Not ‘justice’ or ‘punishment’. Not even ‘revenge’ but, ‘making it possible for these two people to finally release their burden’. To reach that goal, Kanin must go Above, and he must do so voluntarily. There was no other way. Vincent had promised that he and Father would talk to Kanin. So here they were, talking.

"I can’t give any evidence in my own defence," was the basic truth. For similar reasons, Catherine would also have her hands, or tongue, tied. There was no way for Kanin to have a ‘fair trial’ Above. That fact was patently clear, and immutable. All Vincent could tell them, in the face of this, was that Catherine’s research had shown that the sentence was not likely to be a heavy one, as Kanin had only the one offence to answer for.

"Your presence here jeopardises the whole community," Father stated.

Sardonically, he spoke to himself, Oh, yes. Just like you have for the last thirty-something years. What arrant nonsense! It hurt him to slander a good man and Livvy’s bewilderment cut him to the quick.

"He’s not a criminal. He’s one of the most decent men you’ve ever met. How can you send him away?"

"Technically, he is. There’s a warrant for his arrest, and he has admitted the crime."

His conscience asked him, and what about the warrant for one Dr. J. Wells? Wasn’t there something about him absconding during a court hearing? Wonder where he disappeared to, hmm?

Kanin’s revelations about his father’s death, his brothers and sister, his ‘life-sentence’, had all served to strengthen Father’s resolve, that Kanin’s best interests lay in his confronting the situation, not in hiding or avoiding it. Livvy’s unforeseen response took him by surprise.

"Then we’ll leave."

Rather than allow that to happen he would have to capitulate. Hopefully, she was just being rash.

"Olivia has her own concerns about Kanin returning Above," Vincent shrewdly observed. Of course. How myopic could one be? Once Kanin had ‘paid his debt to society’, where did it leave Livvy? The more Jacob thought about the possibilities, the less easily could he dismiss her idea as ‘rashness’. Livvy had been born here, in the tunnels. She had no status Above. Perhaps they could bear the temporary separation, but could they survive his freedom? Kanin’s love for her was the only hold she had. Was it deep enough, strong enough, to bring him home to her? Jacob felt sure it was, but Livvy must feel very insecure. Kanin had a mother, a sister, two brothers with whom he had been unable to communicate for sixteen years. That would all change, once he’d satisfied the court’s requirements. All his birth family lived in the huge, unknown world Above, where Livvy had rarely ventured. Even if their marriage held together, the prospect of contact Above would be terrifying to her.

Exile to another part of the tunnels might well seem preferable. He would wait for the outcome of her proposal, before changing course.

The other members of the council would be hard to hold in check, though. There was justifiable outrage from every one of them when it seemed he was intent on sending Kanin away.

"We can’t ask Catherine to lie," Vincent stated.

"Why not?"

"We may have to."

"Maybe just feed Kanin to the wolves."

"Not being friend."

All were patently opposed to Jacob’s stance. His appeal that, "the Rules state quite clearly . . . " was dismissed by a further barrage.

"The rules don’t apply here . . . "

"Or we must change them . . . "

"Or make an exception . . . "

Perfectly valid observations, he knew. Flexibility, the spirit not the letter, was the underlying strength of tunnel law, but what he said however, was, "We can’t do that. It’s a fundamental principal."

Vincent’s suggestion that they wait for Kanin’s decision brought a momentary respite, but all hopes were dashed when they were assured that the young family was already packing to leave. People remonstrated with him, one after another.

"He’s no more a criminal than you or I" (Ouch!)

"It’s not going to help anybody to turn himself in." (True)

The next few broadsides went Catherine’s way . . .

"I am his friend," she stated decisively.

"Then let him go!" Poor Catherine. Mouse logic was so simple!

They hadn’t been prepared for the young family to carry through their decision to leave the home tunnels, or at least, not quite so soon. That must not happen. It would neither help Kanin nor would it be right for them to exile themselves from the support of the community. It would do inestimable damage to the rapport, the morale, the whole ethos, of the tunnel world. Of that, Jacob Wells was certain.

If Kanin and Olivia were adamant about leaving, both Vincent and Father were aware that they would be forced to withdraw their opposition to the majority view. No one else wanted Kanin to be obliged to go Above.

Vincent left, to find out what the situation was, while the indignant council members continued to try to coerce Father into altering his attitude.

Jacob Wells did not know how his son was able to persuade Kanin to return Olivia and Luke into the care of the community, while he went to answer the charge Above. He was never sure how Catherine was able to arrange a meeting between ‘criminal’ and ‘victim’. However, he was immensely grateful to them both for their achievements.

Because Kanin had ‘jumped bail’, he would be held in custody, but there was a good chance that by the time his case was heard, he would be released. He knew Catherine would push for an early hearing, so all in all, prospects were as good as they could have possibly hoped for.

For once, Father had won a game. He had come very close to being out-manoeuvred, by Olivia, this time. His strategy had paid off, in the end.

* * * *

"What is it you want of me, John?"

Jacob Wells slumped in defeat. He could not summon the resources from within himself to carry out a cold-blooded murder on an unarmed man.

They both knew it.

Physical violence was not usually Paracelsus’ way, and the blow to his head, from his own cane, was completely unexpected. Stunned, he was helpless to prevent himself from being roughly pushed across the room. Lacking his cane’s support, he fell into the closet. The faint echoes of evil chuckling faded away, and in the darkness, he assessed the situation. Try as he might, he could not do anything to free himself from the chair into which he had been securely bound. He began to realise just how vulnerable he had left the community Below, and Vincent. He’d burned those dreadful photos, destroyed John’s note; dismissed Jamie, in his consternation, with an abruptness bordering on being rude. In spite of the very necessary ‘unwritten law’ that one always left word when one left the home chambers, he’d told no one of his intentions. Mentally berating himself for arrogant stupidity, he knew the most anyone might deduce, from his missing suit, was that he’d come Above. What mischief had John planned, now he was helpless to intervene? He couldn’t even warn anyone Below! John, ominously, had forced an exchange of clothing. In utter despair, Jacob’s imagination ran riot.

* * * *

Unsure of whether the voices were real, he blinked in confusion when the door gingerly opened. Afraid his half-crazed mind was playing tricks; he knew one voice at least was familiar. It couldn’t be…

"Catherine?"

It was! His relief was overwhelmed by the urgency.

"Paracelsus is Below!"

Driven by a mixture of fear and adrenalin, he fought to his feet and forced his legs to carry him, the moment his bonds were released.

He panted explanations to Catherine, leaning heavily on her for support as he lurched drunkenly along the tunnels. She voiced her chagrin at how completely she’d been taken in by Paracelsus’ impersonation. What damage might he wreak in his manipulation of Vincent’s psyche, already vulnerable from the fear of exposure by Spirko? She knew some of it; the horror of the ‘circumstances of Vincent’s birth’, and a visit to the ‘tomb of his mother’, among other falsities. She knew it for the evil fabrication it was, but equally, she understood how very real were the lies, to Vincent, and how profound the effects. To think he was truly Paracelsus’ son would shatter a lifetime’s trust in Father’s honesty. It would undermine the very foundations on which he’d built his whole life. He would think . . . Oh, God! He would believe whatever evil lies Paracelsus was feeding him! He would think they came from Father!

Anxiety gave them both strength and determination to keep going. As they drew nearer the home chambers, they were spurred to even greater efforts by the dreadful sound of Vincent roaring and snarling in anguish, and knew they had come too late to prevent a tragedy.

Jacob Wells had never felt so impotent in all his years; the almost catatonic state of his son was far beyond his power to heal. His heart broke, as he tried to offer hope, in spite of his own futile hopelessness, to the overwrought young woman who pleaded for assurance.

"Will he be all right?"

"I don’t know. I hope – with time."

He listened to her words of comfort, telling Vincent that the nightmare was over. His blood chilled, as Vincent asserted, "No, it’s not over."

* * * *

The words reverberated in Vincent’s mind, as he kept lonely vigil beside the mirror pool. The expected exposure should have happened four days ago, endless days without Catherine.

"A sick relationship. He’s not human."

The horror on the face of the reporter haunted him. Now, there was the nightmare, Catherine’s nightmare. Did she too view him as some sort of monster, then, if her sub-conscious could let loose such dreadful imaginings? Even Father had said that part of him was a man. And the part that was not? What was he?

There were no answers. Could never by any answers. ‘Father’s stories’ were all he could expect. Paracelsus’ insinuations were, he knew now, intended to mislead, manipulate and make him vulnerable. He would not allow them to undermine his belief in the veracity of Father’s words.

Hadn’t he always known that it was wrong to allow Catherine to tie herself to him? He’d tried to force her out of his life, for her sake, several times. Always the pain of separation had been too great for either of them to bear, and so they had continued. The one thing which he was becoming sure about was that he and Catherine must part. Always, there would be another ‘Watcher’, another reporter ferreting out ‘News’, another evil man to threaten her life, and be killed for his threat. It must be stopped, now, before the tunnel community and Catherine were all destroyed, because of him. He must make Catherine see what he was; force her to understand that they had to separate. Father was right. He would respect his judgement. Somehow he must find the strength to send her out of his life; what happened to him afterward was of no consequence. When Catherine left, she would take his life with her. This was his tomb.

* * * *

"I see the man that I love."

She faced him steadfastly, praying that her words would somehow reach him through the turmoil of his mind.

"A parody of a man!" he spat at her, carrying the hurts of a lifetime in those few syllables. The whip-like movements of his flowing mane punctuated his words as he span in his pacing, every line and muscle taut to the point of snapping.

Catherine was no longer hearing him, though her eyes followed his every movement and her mind knew his agony. She watched the life’s blood pumping relentlessly from the soul of the man whom she loved beyond life; a soul lacerated beyond any repairing, pouring self-revulsion into his efforts to push her out of his life. She was helpless to stem the flow.

From nowhere, an unexpected passion began to fill her. She raged at her own inability to communicate her deep love; at the people and the circumstances which had laid wound over wound until healing was no longer possible. However deep and true her love, it was not enough. Her rage grew to a white-hot fury at the injustice of it all and at her own helplessness. For a few seconds, his vituperative ranting broke through as he halted, facing her.

"How could I ever allow this – this abomination of a body to soil your beauty?" he seethed.

Thought deserted her as frustration and impotence fuelled a primitive, instinctive fire of passionate anger which would have been frightening in its intensity, had there been room for fear.

Suddenly, with an involuntary snarl, he was brought up short by two stinging, forceful slaps, to first one cheek and then the other, in quick succession. Astonished, he focused on Catherine’s heaving, angry stance as she squared up to him with her eyes blazing, mouth distorted with anger, hands clenched into solid fists as if to restrain herself from further assault.

All went still, the silence only emphasised by the laboured panting from two tortured pairs of lungs.

His mind-set diverted from introspection, Vincent became aware of the complete and utter fury which consumed Catherine. She was blind with the red mist of a rage so intense, so far-reaching that it prevented all rationality. Stunned, he was held immobile by the almost tangible emotion which sparked from Catherine to himself, seeming to crackle in the atmosphere like electricity generated in a thunderstorm.

Time stopped, but Vincent’s mind was already whirling in a vortex of new thoughts.

She’s angry with me. Why? Whatever have I done? Such rage in her! It’s almost… it’s like – it’s like when I lose myself, when she’s in danger. Protection. How?

He could relate to Catherine’s rage, he realised. She would allow no one to attack the man she loved. She could no more ignore him reviling himself than he could avoid responding when she was threatened. The responses were the same. The reasons were the same!

Vincent stood un-moving, his face expressionless, even his eyes, locked on Catherine, gave no indication of his tumbling chaos of thoughts.

Without warning, Catherine seemed to deflate, to fold into herself. She collapsed to sit on the bed behind her, boneless and drained, lifeless as a discarded rag doll. He saw the drooping shoulders, the hanging head, and as her eyes slowly, wearily rose to meet his they were filled with such hopeless despair that he felt the pain, deep within himself.

She was utterly spent. Defeated. Every last part of herself had been thrown into the battle. It had not been enough. There were no further resources to call on. The void left by the dissipating anger was filling, relentlessly, with grief, anguish, and hopelessness. A despair of such magnitude, beyond imagining, filled her very being. She had failed. There was nothing left.

Vincent knew that agony of failure. He knew its roots; he knew how it destroyed everything as it grew; how it strangled all but the pain; how it shut out all light from the soul. He knew he could not allow it to consume this woman whom he loved. He could no longer avoid or dispute the truth. He would have to accept the unbelievable.

Catherine searched the beloved face for any indication of where Vincent’s thoughts lay. There were none. The red weals glowing through his facial hair appalled her. Never in all her life had she unleashed physical fury in such a manner. Such violence was abhorrent, and it shamed her deeply. Whatever had possessed her, to strike him so? She remained in a cocoon of abject misery, aware only of the crushing pain within herself and of the motionless form before her.

After an eternity, almost imperceptibly at first, she saw the first tentative rays of light dawning across his face. Catherine held her breath as she watched the sun rise behind his eyes, clearing the clouds, to reveal in azure depths, a beauty greater than she had ever seen. At last come words. They were full of the same awe and wonder which transformed his face.

"Catherine. You love me."

The situation verged on the ridiculous. For at least two of the nearly three years they’d known one another she’d been telling him, showing him, exploring every conceivable way of letting him know that. Exasperation and a sense of the absurd warred within her, until she had to repress the urge to laugh. But nothing mattered now, except to confirm his words. An odd sound, somewhere between a hiccup and a giggle, broke from Catherine as she hastened to reply.

"Yes! Oh yes, Vincent. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I will always love you," she babbled with relief.

As she threw her arms around his neck, the heavy chains and shackles fell from his heart and his soul flew free at last. Vincent believed. He would never through lifetimes understand, but he knew the truth of who he was. He was the man whom Catherine loved. He was loved, as he loved. Infinitely. Unconditionally. Eternally

* * * *

Whatever might have happened next, the peremptory command was certainly not what she expected.

"Come."

Catherine took his outstretched hand and ran, trying to keep up with his long legs as he rushed from the chamber and along the passage to the study. Before he was even half-way down the steps, his excitement overtook him and with no preamble, no greeting, he burst out, "Father! Catherine loves me!"

"Indeed, Vincent. That’s so."

"When shall we be joined, Father? How soon can the arrangements be made?"

A quick glance took in Catherine’s look of astonishment, and with a twinkle in his eyes and a hand raised to cover a smile, Father teased, "It’s usual to ask the lady involved first, my son."

"You will marry me…" as he half-turned to Catherine, Vincent’s tone was somewhat hesitant.

The staid, dignified reserve, which was a constant in this man she so loved, had been swept away, allowing her the briefest glimpse of the eager, excited boy he had once been.

It was a moment to treasure.

"Interrogative, Vincent," the old man broke in.

Before the look of consternation could take hold, Catherine reached for both of Vincent’s hands, realising how new, how overwhelming were his emotions. This was no time for humour. Holding the gaze of her beloved, she gently but firmly stated.

"No, Father. Imperative. In any case, we will not be parted ever again. Whatever happens, we are one. For always."

Jacob Wells was spellbound as he saw his son slowly bow his head to take Catherine’s lips, so tenderly, in what he rightly surmised was their first kiss. Tears rolled unheeded and he felt his whole being fill with joy to see his son home at long last, in the arms of the woman he adored. It was so beautiful, so right. He allowed himself a few more moments to drink in the vision of the oblivious couple before forcing his legs to take him out of his chamber. The memory of that poignant scene would warm him always. He was so grateful to have been allowed to share in it, but for now they needed privacy. He had a wedding to arrange! Good news to spread! Mary must be told. William would be thrilled to have this long-hoped-for feast to prepare. They must settle on a date. Devin must be contacted. All the helpers…

His feet had taken him to where he most wanted to be, without his consciously directing them.

"Mary, my dear. May I come in?"

* * * *

Rivulets of perspiration pooled onto the pillow to form a dark halo, as his head tossed from side to side. The incessant ramblings of delirium rose and fell, an irregular volume and pitch, often incoherent, sometimes briefly comprehensible. The intensity of distress was frightening. As the hours passed, the fear for the troubled soul threshing in torment grew. How long could a body survive such an assault, before it gave up the struggle?

* * * *

Catherine Chandler was humming a cheerful tune as she reached home. She kicked off her heels the minute the door closed behind her, and almost skipped across the carpet to the bedroom. This day her labours had been well rewarded. This time justice had been served and there were three less monsters to roam the streets peddling poison. One had broken down at last to give information which she was certain would lead to more arrests. Vincent would be so pleased. He was always proud of her, even when her cases did not go so well. She was eager to shower, change and get Below to be with him. Her mind was far away, but quickly returned from her daydreams when the doorbell rang, simultaneously with pounding and an urgent calling of her name.

"Jamie!" Catherine blanched as she saw the tearful agitation.

"We can’t find Peter. Can you help? They won’t tell me, but they’d tell you. We must . . . "

Catherine broke in to the rush of words, as she drew the almost incoherent girl into the room, putting an arm around the heaving shoulders.

"Calm down, Jamie, and tell me what’s happened."

Inside her, one word was pounding, ‘Vincent’ and her stomach went into a tight knot, as she desperately tried to retain an outward control, though inner dread was making her nauseous.

"I rang his home number, but the call went to an answering service. Peter always leaves instructions that in an emergency we tell them that it’s the Chase Foundation and they contact him, or give us a number where he can be reached. I did that, but . . . but she wouldn’t an I didn’t know what to do so I came to you."

By this time Jamie, distraught, was sobbing so hard that her words were almost lost. It was clear, patently clear, however, that there was a crisis Below and Peter was urgently needed. Catherine dreaded the answer to her next question.

Gently she asked, "Can you tell me why you need Peter?"

Words came tumbling out again.

"He’s getting worse and Mary can’t stop crying and Vincent can’t… and we don’t know what to do. The fever’s so bad and we can’t get his temperature down and . . . "

"Who is so ill, Jamie?"

She fought to keep the panic out of her voice.

"It’s Father. We thought he just had a cold or maybe over-tired himself - You know he works so – but oh, Catherine its much worse now and everyone’s so scared for him and nobody knows what to do!" she wailed.

Relief, tinged with guilt, flooded through Catherine.

"I’ll trace Peter for you; don’t worry, Jamie. I’ll get him Below as soon as I can."

She was praying it was just a mix-up with the answering service. She’d had lunch with Peter the previous day, and knew he had no plans to be away. He would never leave town without forewarning the community. The thought crossed her mind that Father might have been in no fit state to act on any such information, but she dismissed it. Going to the phone, she forced a re-assuring smile for Jamie, who was already at the door, anxious to get home.

* * * *

Catherine stopped momentarily at the foot of the stairs in Father’s study, to get her breath back after running pell-mell through the tunnels. She tried to compose herself, while approaching his bedchamber. Snatches of his cries reached her. She was halted in the doorway by the gut-wrenching scene in front of her.

"Her name – can’t remember – must remember – So young – a beautiful child – too young to die – "

Tears rolling down his tortured face were a mirror image of those of his son, as he vainly tried to calm the man who, for all of his life, had been his source of strength, of solace. She watched as Vincent tenderly brushed the sweat-sodden hair back and wiped the old man’s face with a washcloth. She became aware of undertones, of a constant litany, as if he were comforting a small child who was in the throes of a nightmare.

"There, there, Father. Hush, now. Nothing can harm you. Don’t distress yourself so. All will be well. Sleep now. Hush. Rest and I’ll watch over you. All is well, rest now . . . "

On and on it went. At last, the gentle sounds and the stroking of the fevered brow seemed to have a soothing effect and sleep stilled the fretful movements.

It was several long minutes before Vincent raised his eyes from Father’s face. He started when he saw the still figure in the doorway and his whispering of her name broke her immobility. She rounded the bed to stand by his chair. Not a word was spoken as she held him close. He clung to her in a dazed grief, like a child who had been lost, needing her physical touch to anchor him. Her heart broke for him. She offered the only comfort she could.

"Peter’s on his way. He should be here soon."

"Yes."

She was still holding him, smoothing his hair, rubbing his back, as she stood beside his chair when Mary came to the entrance half-an-hour later. Her dishevelled appearance, red, puffy eyes and the deep-etched lines of worry in her usually serene face spoke volumes. Vincent answered the un-voiced question.

"He’s been quiet for a short time, Mary, but the fever still rages. I managed to get a sip or two of water into him but I fear he is becoming severely de-hydrated."

At least Mary could treat those symptoms. Another cool sponge bath and a drip to replace fluids would do no harm, until Peter could take over. Pushing her fears down for the moment, she began bustling about making preparations, gently shooing Vincent and Catherine towards the study.

"I’m sure Catherine would like a cup of tea, Vincent, and she’s probably hungry too. You take care of that for her, while I see to Father for a while. Off you go now."

Catherine quickly picked up the hidden message and put out her hand to lead a reluctant Vincent away from the bedside. She wondered how many hours he had spent there, without respite or food. Dazed, he allowed her to lead him across the study to an ancient, huge couch, and meeting little resistance she urged him down, raised his feet and finding a cover, tucked it around him.

"Rest a moment, while I go and raid William’s kitchen. I won’t be long."

As she passed each subdued group in the tunnels, worried faces turned her way, and eyes full of concern repeated the same mute request.

"He’s resting quietly for the moment. Peter will be here soon," was her answer to each. She tried to inject a confident optimism into her tone, but was far from sure of her success.

* * * *

Peter pursed his lips as he read the thermometer, shook down the mercury and took hold of one flailing wrist. The etched lines of his face were testament to his deep concern over the condition of his dear friend. Vincent took Father in a firm but tender embrace, to aid Peter in his examination, the stethoscope applied between the delirious outcries of his patient.

" . . . Useless! Should have been led. Dear God! They should have been led . . . so young to die . . . I should have known . . . Must make them understand . . . Tell Vincent. NO! Can’t tell him. Catherine could find out! No. Too late. Destroyed . . . No records. So cruel. How could I be so cruel? Must tell Vincent! I’m right . . . Maybe I’m right. Tell Vincent. Oh, dear God, help me! I can’t bear it! I can’t!"

And so it went on, hour after heart-rending hour, the delirium rising and falling, while those anxiously watching over him bathed his fiery body, smoothed his sweat soaked brow and prayed desperately for the fever to break. The hours made days. Vincent had at last sobbed himself to sleep in Catherine’s arms on the old couch, and Mary was by the bedside.

"A cup of your Earl Grey would go down a treat right now, my dear."

Mary’s jaw dropped. Her heart raced from utter despair to hope. She looked at her patient in stunned amazement. Automatically she raised her hand to his brow and an incredulous whisper made its way past her lips.

"Father?"

"Some tea, Mary? If you would be so kind?"

To his consternation, she dissolved into tears.

"Oh yes, Jacob! Of course!"

She rushed to the doorway, calling excitedly, "He’s better. The crisis has passed. He’s better. Oh, my dears, it’s all right! He’s going to be all right!"

* * * *

"I’d shut away all the memories of that dreadful time before - before I - came here. I had to, really. It was the only way I could - cope; retain my sanity. I was so helpless, in the face of the courts, the institute, and the government agencies. How could one man’s voice be heard above the noisy opposition from all sides? I was branded a criminal, called a traitor, for no greater sin than speaking the truth. Not just my idea of the truth, Vincent. I was right! I knew I was right, Vincent, but I was powerless. I tried, God knows, I tried. Even in that awful courtroom, I spoke up! They simply switched off the microphones, and deleted my testimony."

In his agitation, Jacob Wells had risen further and further from his bed, clutching frantically at Vincent’s forearm, as if he could thus impress his sincerity by physical touch as well as with words. Breathless and exhausted, he sank back to the pillows and sleep claimed him.

* * * *

There was a hand on Vincent’s shoulder. It was Peter’s, and wearily Vincent rose from his father’s side and followed the physician into the study where conversation could not disturb the sick man’s rest.

"I know how difficult this must be for you," Peter began, "but it is essential that you encourage him to express all his long-suppressed feelings about that time. You are used to respecting people’s privacy, and probing into things which Jacob has kept carefully concealed goes against your beliefs. I understand that." He paused; formulating an analogy, then went on.

"Think of it this way; one has to lance a boil and allow the poison to drain, to ease the painful pressure and to allow healing to take place. There is some trauma, exactly what we don’t know yet, hidden amongst those painful memories. Vincent, it’s imperative that he face whatever it is; it allows his mind no peace. I cannot bring him professional help and this is not my area of expertise. My belief is that even if circumstances were otherwise, you would still be the one whose help he needs. Somehow, this is linked to you."

"But Peter, how can that be? This all took place years before I was born, surely?"

"You are right, of course. Nevertheless, you have been the primary focus for Jacob’s life. You gave him a reason to continue. When the world had reduced him to nothing, your needs gave him a purpose. From being nobody, he grew to be ‘Vincent’s father’ and that, young man, has made him justifiably proud."

The shoulders straightened, the shaggy head rose from his chest and Vincent turned tear-filled eyes to this dear friend who had cared for him all his life.

"Thank you, Peter," came his heartfelt whisper. "I will do as you advise. I owe him everything. Nothing is too difficult for me to undertake, if only I can help him to be well again."

* * * *

"It was Eli, Eli Samuels, who first raised my awareness of the possible side-effects of exposure. There were no established facts, no formal data; research was just beginning, you see. There were just hints of unease; wisps of colloquial information from un-linked sources; nothing openly discussed; nothing tangible or officially acknowledged, just the opposite, in fact. As you know, I found to my cost that all misgivings were ruthlessly quashed at that time. All considerations were set aside," here his observations were spat out with venom, "in the pursuit of developing ‘the ultimate weapon’. First nuclear fission, the atom bomb, then fusion, the hydrogen bomb, were the focus of research, and where most resources were directed. Truman’s ‘Atomic Energy Commission’."

He quietened down a little, drank a little more from the ubiquitous cup of tea, settled more comfortably, then took up his narration once more.

"Eli didn’t find things easy. After the events in Europe, many restrictions were being challenged. He had won a scholarship to Med. School, but that didn’t mean he was accepted. Not by students, not even by faculty. We got on well, Sammy and I, but John detested him. Perhaps he was jealous, I don’t know. He certainly went out of his way to make things more uncomfortable. Eli was a brilliant biochemist. His intellect far out-stripped mine, or Peter’s. He joined a modest general practice, in Nevada. I went on to take up a position as research chemist, at Chittenden."

Catherine was reminded how she, too, had befriended a girl at college. She had been and still was, a staunch and loyal friend. She knew Jenny had had to fight to win her place socially, on campus; far harder than she’d ever struggled academically. Conversations in the Aronson household had brought home hard the understanding that recent history had left a legacy of grief for the remnants of decimated families. The pain was immense, widespread and immediate. She knew it wasn’t ‘history’ for Jenny’s community. Unlike Father’s friend, Jenny was now a top executive in her chosen profession, publishing. Perhaps intolerance was gradually giving way to acceptance. She returned her attention to Father.

"We corresponded irregularly – both busy with our work, and it took a while before I mentally linked what he had related from time to time with the geographical area and the possible bearing on my own research. Once I realised the close proximity of the test site to Sammy’s practice it was like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering momentum and mass as it went.

"I looked with fresh eyes at my own results, co-related them with Sammy’s evidence, gathered what I could from other sources. My conclusions were frightening. I was sure that all nuclear testing would be stopped immediately, once I made my findings known. Naturally, they wouldn’t risk the health, possibly the lives, of unsuspecting, innocent people, once they were informed of the dangers.

"With the rashness and naiveté of youth I went headlong into the confrontation. The military, the politicians, the judiciary – I took them all on, single-handedly, and I expected to win because I was right. I was telling the truth . . . Ah, Sammy was so much wiser than I!" He sank back onto the pillows.

* * * *

William himself brought supper, sufficient for Father, Catherine and Vincent. Each member of the community seemed to have found valid needs for a visit. Rebecca to replenish the candles, Cullen to replace a strained hinge on the wardrobe door, Sarah to collect laundry, and the list went on. After such a fearful time, all needed re-assurance. Father was much stronger and he hoped that Peter would soon agree to him getting up for short periods.

Catherine was to go back to work the following day. It would give a boost to Father’s morale to know that they were now confident that he was ‘on the mend’ to a degree where her presence was no longer needed Below. Poor Joe, however, would certainly be tearing his hair out by now, so at Vincent’s gentle insistence that he could manage without her during the day at least, she had given in.

The parting at the threshold, never easy, was more difficult than ever before. As they reluctantly separated after the fifth ‘one last kiss,’ Catherine was both amused and amazed at his threat to ‘come and fetch her’ if she were to delay her return the following evening, by working late.

"I’ll come down the minute I can get away,’ she promised, "but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stand being away from you, my love."

Knowing that he needed to return to Father, she steeled herself to make it easier for him, "Till tomorrow, Vincent," and she climbed the basement ladder to the echo of his words.

"Till tomorrow, Catherine. Be well."

* * * *

He expected to find Father soundly sleeping by the time he returned. Not so. As they shared a quiet moment together over a bedtime drink, the reminiscences continued. It was as if once started, Jacob Wells had an urgent need to purge himself of all the pain and bitterness of that earlier life. Peter had foreseen that this would be so, so despite the lateness of the hour, Vincent took no measures to divert Father towards slumber, but settled down to listen.

"There was a young technician in our lab – a beautiful, happy, blonde girl. We’d all gone to her wedding the previous summer. She was absolutely ecstatic when it was confirmed that she was carrying their first child. There were rumours, gossip, when she miscarried in her fifth month. Then . . . " his voice cracked; tears flowed again, "… then - she was diagnosed as having leukaemia. We lost her shortly afterwards and - and I can’t - I can’t remember her name! Why can’t I remember her name?" Father’s voice rose to a distressed wail.

"Rest, Father. Rest now. It will all come back, in time. Everything is fine now. Try to sleep for a while and we’ll talk again tomorrow. You’ll feel much stronger after you sleep."

Vincent tried to cling to Peter’s advice. This was necessary for Father’s healing, but oh, what a gruelling experience, to listen and watch this man he loved so dearly, torn apart by these painful memories. He would find the strength, somehow.

Much of it seemed to have little relevance. Vincent couldn’t probe or question and it was so difficult to encourage the frail man to continue. What worried him most, beyond the evident physical and emotional exhaustion, was the lack of any apparent structure or logical sequence. The constant jumping from one subject to another seemed random, almost rambling at times. That was so unlike Father’s normal cohesive conversation. Vincent was more than a little apprehensive about the likelihood of Father ever making a complete recovery.

True to her word, Catherine had joined Vincent, Father and Mary for dinner and was thrilled to find the meal was set on the study table, with Father comfortably tucked into his favourite armchair.

"Mary said you had been reading a magazine, just before you were taken ill," Catherine remarked conversationally.

Vincent cast her a grateful glance. She seemed to sense just how difficult he found this kind of probing; how reticent he was to prompt the confidences, which were proving so painful to Father.

"Yes. Ye-e-s," was Father’s long, drawn out affirmation as he cast his thoughts back to the start of it all. "‘National Geographic’ or some such. I was just browsing, not really concentrating, when that appalling illustration jumped out at me. The lingering after effects of the bombs. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. I tried to discard it from my mind; I have always avoided such references - but somehow my eyes - my brain - were intent on assimilating the words, in spite of myself, ‘Deformed neo-natals are generally not raised’."

Trembling gave way to visible shudders, which wracked the whole frame of the weeping old man, as Vincent drew him into a comforting embrace.

"I could not bear it. I could not read beyond those words. My eyes kept going over and over that one sentence. I could not stop. In the end I . . . I . . . "

"You hurled it across the chamber just as hard, and as far, as you could," Mary finished for him, remembering her own surprise at finding any book in such condition. It was simply unprecedented, and had given the first warning that something was very seriously amiss.

"Yes. I did. But it was too late. It was there, burning in my brain and I could not be rid of it. Such a reasonable, clinically clean way of expressing something so morally repugnant. I kept thinking of the man I admire and respect most in all the world; the child I have loved with all my heart for all his life; the ‘defective neo-natal’ they had decided ‘not to raise’ and my heart broke."

Vincent’s arms tightened and he clung to Father, pressing a kiss into his hair, overcome by the accolade just bestowed. He’d always felt loved, but this . . . The words contained a concept too large to grasp immediately. It was a revelation, to be held close for now and taken out to cherish later.

"I think it may have been that article which precipitated my illness. The sheer horror of that callous euphemism and its oh-so-casual use just seemed to overwhelm me. All the implications within that piece of reporting seemed to somehow combine with the memories, which had been clamouring for recognition, for release, for years. It was my arrest for Allan’s murder, which brought back the courtroom and the relentless, accusatory interrogations, but they were submerged by events when I arrived home, Margaret’s return. All other things faded into insignificance during those few precious days we had."

"And then you had to deal with her loss."

"Yes. But worse, far worse than all that, Vincent, was the realisation of how I had failed you, my son." He raised a hand to halt Vincent’s denial. "All those painful years of your searching for answers; torturing yourself with so many dreadful possibilities; turning to me for help when I had none to give."

"But Father, you cannot hold yourself responsible for that! No one could give me those answers. How can anyone castigate himself for not knowing the un-knowable? That’s . . . "

A hand gripping his forearm quietened him.

"I had the answers, Vincent!"

During the moments of stunned silence three pairs of eyes, fixed on his own, widened in consternation.

"No, no – its not the fever returning. I know what I’m saying. It’s true. All this time I’ve had the answers, although I didn’t know I had them. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that I’m right. At first my recollections were fragmented; one thing bringing forth other, seemingly unrelated incidents. Then gradually, the fragments seemed to gain relevance, one to another, and the pieces eventually came together to form a cohesive, whole picture of that time. I began to see possibilities, which became probabilities and now – certainties. I can’t get you proofs. That’s never going to be possible. All my work was destroyed and cannot be recovered, but they could not destroy my knowledge of that time, my memories . . . " a wry smile crossed his face, "however hard I tried to help them."

"Father, you are exhausted. Won’t you rest now, just for a little while? You need to regain your strength."

Jacob smiled at the irony of this role-reversal. It was true, he was very tired, what difference would an hour or two make to a narrative, which had been waiting for years? It would ease Vincent’s worry and the boy needed to rest. He too was exhausted. He allowed Vincent to help him to his bed, while Mary and Catherine cleared away the meal.

* * * *

Catherine flew across to the balcony doors, at the sound of Vincent’s tapping.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, searching his face anxiously.

"All is well, Catherine. Peter is more than pleased with Father’s progress. Mary still fusses over him like a mother hen. William cooks new recipes daily to tempt his appetite. Everyone is so relieved at his recovery that he has not had a minute’s peace from visiting well-wishers. I have been shoo-ed away to spend time with my beloved by no lesser personage than Father himself."

She raised her face from his chest, gave an impish smile and retorted, "Wow! I’m impressed."

"I’ve been instructed to give you his heart-felt apologies for the delay in our joining and I’m to ask you to decide on the earliest convenient date, now that he’s well enough to officiate."

"Tomorrow!" she giggled, emphasising the word with an enthusiastic squeeze. "Any more ‘instructions’?"

"Well . . . " he said, eyes twinkling as he brushed a feather-light caress across her lips, "I was not absolutely certain . . . " another teasing kiss, "But I think - this is probably - what he meant…" Catherine tried to maintain her composure, "When he said, ‘go and canoodle with Catherine for an hour or two, my boy’."

When their laughter subsided, she assured him they ought to obey Father’s instructions to the letter.

Later, much later when ‘duty’ had been served, they discussed wedding plans, debated heatedly about Catherine’s future career, talked about whether to keep the apartment, which of them was the more fortunate to be marrying the other . . . all the usual things which young couples have to decide, all except one.

Vincent was far too shy to broach the subject. Catherine was too fearful of causing him pain. Unnecessary pain, as she knew the answer to the question, or thought she did. Their dream of a life together was coming true. That was miracle enough.

* * * *

Catherine knew that Father would talk more about his own ‘answers’, but first he thought it right to discuss them with Vincent, in private. Vincent had, briefly, shared some of what he’d been told, but time had not allowed for an extensive exploration of the new disclosures. She knew that Father believed that Vincent’s mother had been exposed to radiation during her pregnancy, but not how or why he thought so. Explanations could wait, but their effects on Vincent were of more immediate importance to her.

"How do you feel now, Vincent, about Father’s conclusions?"

He considered her question for a few moments.

"Relieved. Sad. Confused. I don’t think it has all sunk in yet. It will take time."

"But do you feel he’s right? Even though there is no way to substantiate it?"

"He’s quite certain; I trust his judgement, but more that that, it all seems to fit; it feels right, here," his hand went over his heart, "inside me. It’s given me such peace. It’s driven out all the poisonous nonsense with which Paracelsus tried to manipulate me, all the horrors of my own imagination. It leaves room for the likelihood that I came from normal human parentage. A tragic accident is so much easier to live with than - than the other possibilities."

"I’m glad. I never believed for a moment any of those ‘other possibilities’ but however you came to be, I love the man you are, body and soul, always."

He pulled her closer, knowing the truth of her words.

"In one way, Father’s theories are irrelevant, Vincent. You are who you are. If it changes the way you see yourself, though, that’s important."

For once, Vincent thought, that razor sharp lawyer’s mind has overlooked a significant aspect of the case. But now was not the time. Later.

How can Father be so certain that Vincent’s ‘differences’ are not inherited? Thought Catherine. She would not indulge mere curiosity. She was not about to say a word which might disturb his newfound peace. Now was not the time. Later.

* * * *

"I know now, that there should have been lead shielding between the technicians and the material they were handling, but at that time, in our ignorance, they worked inside heavy gloves which had been fixed within portholes in thick glass casing."

Father’s gaze was distant and for a moment or two he seemed deep in thought. Catherine and Vincent waited quietly for him to continue. "Grace!" he said, suddenly. Uneasy at the apparent non sequitur, Vincent queried, "Devin’s mother?"

"The young woman whom we lost to blood cancer. Remember I told you how she had miscarried? She was Grace, Grace Sanders. Such a beautiful, warm-hearted, bubbly person, who seemed to radiate happiness and bring joy and laughter to all of us. It felt like such a betrayal of her memory, that I couldn’t recall her name."

"Her loss affected you deeply, Father."

"Yes. She was too young, too vibrant to die. Hardly out of her teens, all her life before her, newly wed, ecstatic at the prospect of motherhood. Wise beyond her years in the way she could raise a person’s spirit, sense when they were down-hearted. It seemed such a huge injustice. I was deeply shocked. My faith was shattered. Somehow, I couldn’t come to terms with what happed to her. It seemed so senseless, so cruel."

"So your mind must have hidden away those memories, deep inside you, for all these years," Catherine observed.

The ramblings of his delirium were starting to make sense. It had not been Ellie’s tragic loss during the recent plague, which had so troubled him, this time, but this much earlier bereavement. The irony of losing ‘Grace’ again at Devin’s birth, must have strengthened the suppression of the earlier memories. Jacob Wells had gone through the grieving process for neither loss.

No accident had befallen visitors whom they had failed to escort Above; his word had been ‘lead’, referring to metal shields from radiation, not, ‘led’ at all.

Vincent began to realise that his own increasing fears for Father’s sanity were blessedly un-founded. Those seemingly irrational, un-connected ravings were not evidence that he was losing his mind; quite the contrary, in fact. Jacob Wells had been painfully, traumatically re-claiming what he had lost from his memory when life had swamped a young man with more than he could bear. Within those memories, he had uncovered the long debated answers to Vincent’s probable origins.

"Most of the data from affected military personnel to which I was able to gain access was predominantly showing sterility, though it’s quite possible that gene mutation or damage could also have been causing hereditary defects. There was simply no information available. However, you were quite evidently born here, so it’s likely that your mother lived here. I thought it a high probability that you had been damaged ‘in utero’ rather than been affected by heredity, and the results confirm that, so now I am absolutely convinced, both in my heart and mind."

Catherine quickly picked up on the word, "Results?"

An uncomfortable silence stretched out, as Father shifted uneasily in his chair, eyes downcast at the papers littered across his desk, and he began chewing the arm of his spectacles.

She noted a brief sideways glance toward Vincent and followed it. She was astonished by the unmistakeable blush from the throat, up his neck and face and disappearing under the shaggy bangs. His head dropped, hiding his expression behind his mane, as Vincent moved in his chair, echoing Father’s obvious discomfiture. Suddenly he shot out of his seat and began pacing agitatedly.

"I’m so sorry, my boy. I hadn’t realised . . . you and Catherine have not discussed this?"

"There was no time - you were ill - so much else to decide," the tense pacing continued. "I – I, Catherine, I would keep nothing from you, not now. I . . . It’s difficult . . . "

Catherine rose quickly; a hand, lightly rested on his forearm, enough to stop him in mid-stride.

"Oh, Vincent," a finger under his chin lifted the bowed head, "Don’t you know even now, you can tell me anything?"

Desperate to remove the anguish from within those azure pools she moved in closer, one arm creeping around his waist, the other stretching up until she could gently massage the nape of his neck. She tenderly edged his head downward, placing small comforting kisses, first to his throat and under his chin, until movement brought his face within reach, to be showered with similar brief, light caresses while she crooned quiet words of love.

"I love you so much. Nothing can come between us. Whatever you have to say, it won’t alter our love, Vincent. Always, we’ll be together . . . "

Neither was aware that Father had quietly left the chamber, but it would have made no difference, had he not. As day follows night, if Vincent hurt, Catherine would soothe his pain. No other consideration could divert her from that one objective. Gradually she felt the tension ease from the massive frame, and at last he began to respond to her.

"Come. We’ll talk in my Chamber."

She grasped the offered hand, and followed.

* * * *

"It was shortly after you had agreed to become my – wife." He lingered on the word, his expression of pride and awe filling Catherine with joy. His eyes were untroubled now, but it was as if he was looking far into the distance, not so much talking to her, as thinking aloud. Once he began, the hesitancy disappeared and his words flowed in the fluent, articulate way she’d always admired. She sat very still; not wanting to intrude her presence, careful of interrupting his self-confident resolve. Once, impetuosity might have defined her personality but she had learned how to be patient. One gift among many which had come from this man whom she adored.

"I knew there were so many things I would never be able to give you, do for you, but everything within my power would be yours. I had spoken with Father, of course, about what I am, what my differences meant but some areas had always been irrelevant. We knew the course of my life could never include the love of a woman, the raising of a family; such things were pointless to discuss and would have been painful, so they were avoided."

The words hit Catherine like punches to the solar plexus. She felt like delivering a few blows of her own, but reined in her emotions and controlled the almost overwhelming urge to negate what he’d stated in such a matter-of-fact way.

"But that all changed with our intention of joining and I needed to address many new possibilities. Neither Father nor Peter thought it possible for me to reproduce, but I knew we would have to take care, in case they were wrong. I wanted to take the responsibility for that. It was one small way to ease your burden. So I went to Father to arrange a permanent solution . . . "

Catherine lost it with a loud gasp of horror and she broke in, involuntarily, "He didn’t! Surely you haven’t . . . ?"

Quickly, with a rueful smile, he interrupted her, "No, my love. Father’s response was much like yours. I received the most severe verbal reprimand I can ever recall!"

Here, Vincent altered his stance, faced Catherine and with much finger pointing, hand waving, beard stroking and an uncanny change in his manner and tone of speech, he proceeded to deliver Father’s lecture to Catherine.

" . . . and its about time you got it into that thick skull of yours that such unilateral decisions are no longer acceptable in any matter which is pertinent to Catherine, let alone in such a crucial consideration as this. Such a procedure would have repercussions for both of you for the rest of your lives. For heaven’s sake, Vincent, you haven’t even established whether it’s necessary, have you?"

Serious as the subject was, his mimicry was so hilarious, and with the mental picture of Father’s relatively small form roundly berating Vincent’s huge one, and Vincent on the receiving end of such a tongue-lashing, meekly accepting it, Catherine was helpless with laughter, long before his conclusion.

"So you see, my love, how neatly I was manoeuvred into a trap? Father had Peter undertake the evaluation of my . . . um . . . my . . . "

"Sample? Specimen?"

"Yes. That. And now, you see, it’s not necessary after all."

Catherine’s heart sank. She’d come to terms with the painful reality that she would not be able to bear Vincent a child. He would not risk inflicting his problems on another. She understood that. Though the idea of another ‘Vincent’ thrilled her, she knew her Vincent would be crushed with guilt. But to know that he was sterile, that there was no possibility, was a blow. A blow, which he felt, could see in her face, but did not understand. Hesitantly, he probed for reasons for her unexpected reaction.

"Catherine? I thought you wanted children?"

"It doesn’t matter, Vincent. I can manage without, so long as I have you. You are all I need."

She gave him a reassuring hug.

Light dawned and he gently held her chin up, capturing her eyes and holding them in his hypnotic gaze as he clarified her misconception. With an unprecedented term of endearment, which imprinted itself deep into her soul, he told her, "Sweetheart, there were absolutely no abnormalities at all. To be doubly sure, Peter asked for a fresh sample. He had all the tests done a second time. There is every likelihood that this dream will come true for us, as well. Certainly we can try and make it so."

Stunned, Catherine needed a few moments before the meaning of his words began to register. Vincent momentarily closed his eyes, head flung back, inhaling deeply as he savoured the increasing intensity of her emotions. His own elation mirrored the overwhelming joy, which was shimmering within her.

His words resounded in her mind. ‘We can try to make it so.’ At last, all the implications became clear.

He looked into her lovely face and saw eyes sparkling with mischief and an impish grin as she found her voice. At least for one word, "Now?"

Chuckling, he swooped one muscular arm behind her knees, the other around her back, holding her securely to his chest as he whirled them both round in a giddy, exuberant dance. Her giggles became gales of laughter as his rumbling chuckles gave way to a full-bodied release of sheer happiness.

When they stilled once more, his usual solemn dignity intact, except for the merest hint of laughter around his eyes and a subtle, irrepressible lift to the corners of his mouth, he replied, "I was taught, Catherine, by a very wise man, that ‘there is no time like the present’."

* * * *

. . . or the future . . .

Finding the main chamber empty, Catherine moved quietly to the doorway of the recently completed annexe. His back was towards her, but she stole under the arm that Vincent raised, when he felt her presence. Soundlessly, her arms circled his waist and her head came to rest over his heart as she joined him in his reverie. His gentle voice enhanced the tranquillity.

"Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings heard in this dead calm
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of thought;
My babe so beautiful, it fills my heart
With tender gladness thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe, shall wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags; . . ."

"Oh, that’s lovely, Vincent."

"The thoughts of another father, two centuries ago, as he watched over his son."

They were silent, pensive a few moments, then Vincent continued.

"I think, perhaps, for each parent, each cradle holds the hope, and the promise, for the future."

Recalling their son’s naming ceremony earlier that evening, she assented, "Yes. The child is the meaning of life."

She tightened her embrace as she felt his tender kiss on the crown of her head, and smiled, as his sigh of happiness echoed her own.

 

(Extract) Surprised by Joy, by Wordsworth, on his daughter’s death.

(Extract) Frost at Midnight, by Coleridge on his son Hartley.