Page 47 of The Giver of Stars
‘She likes it there. She’s … doing a good job. Helping people and all.’
Van Cleve stared at his son. His eyes bulged out of his beet-red face, as if someone had squeezed him from the neck. ‘Have you lost your damned mind as well?’ He stared at them both, his cheeks blown out and his knuckles white, as if braced for an explosion that wouldn’t come. Finally he threw the last of the bourbon down his throat, slammed down his glass and set off outside, the screen door bouncing on its hinges in his wake.
Bennett and Alice stood in the silent kitchen, listening to Mr Van Cleve’s Ford Sedan starting up and roaring into the distance.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He let out a long breath, and turned away. She wondered then whether something might shift. Whether the act of standing up to his father might alter whatever had gone so wrong between them. She thought of Kathleen Bligh and her husband, the way that, even as Alice read to him, Kathleen would stroke his head as she passed, or place her hand on his. The way, sick and frail as he was, Garrett would reach out for her, his hollowed face always finding even the faintest smile for his wife.
She took a step towards Bennett, wondering if she mighttake his hand. But, as if reading her mind, he thrust both into his pockets.
‘Well, I appreciate it,’ she said quietly, stepping back again. And then, when he didn’t speak, she fixed him a drink and went upstairs.
Garrett Bligh died two days later, after weeks of hovering in a strange, rasping hinterland while those who loved him tried to work out whether his lungs or his heart would give out first. The word went round the mountain, the bell tolled thirty-four times, so that everyone nearby could tell who had departed. After they had finished their day’s work the neighbouring men gathered at the Bligh household, carrying good clothes in case Kathleen had none, ready to lay out, wash and dress the body, as was the local custom. Others began to build the coffin that would be lined with cotton and silk.
Word reached the Packhorse Library a day later. Margery and Alice, by tacit agreement, shared out their routes between Beth and Izzy as best they could, then set out for the house together. There was a sharp wind that, instead of being blocked by the mountains, simply used them as a funnel, and Alice rode the whole way with her chin pressed into her collar, wondering what she could say when she reached the little house, and wishing she had an appropriate greetings card, or perhaps a posy to offer.
In England a house in mourning was a place of silence, of vaguely whispered conversation, shaded by a cloak of sadness, or awkwardness, depending on how well the deceased was known or loved. Alice, who often managed to say the wrong thing, found such hushed occasions oppressive, a trap that she would no doubt fall into.
When they reached the top of Hellmouth Ridge, though, there was little suggestion of silence: they passed cars andbuggies dotted lower down the track, abandoned on the verge as the passing became impossible, and when they reached the house, strange horses’ heads poked out of the barn, whickering at each other, and muffled singing came from inside. Alice looked over to a small bank of pine trees, where three men were digging in heavy coats, their picks sending clanging sounds into the air as they hit rock, their faces puce, and their breath pale grey clouds. ‘Is she going to bury him here?’ she said to Margery.
‘Yup. His whole family’s up there.’ Alice could just make out a succession of stone slabs, some large, some heartbreakingly small, telling of a Bligh family history on the mountain stretching back generations.
Inside, the little cabin was full to bursting. Garrett Bligh’s bed had been shoved to one side and covered with a quilt for people to sit on. Barely an inch of space remained that wasn’t covered with small children, trays of food, or singing matriarchs, who nodded at Alice and Margery as they entered, without breaking off their song. The windows, which, Alice remembered, had contained no glass, were shuttered and carbide lamps and candles lit the gloom so that it was hard to tell inside if it was day or night. One of the Bligh children sat on the lap of a woman with a prominent chin and kind eyes, and the others nestled into Kathleen, as she closed her eyes and sang too, the only one of the group to be somewhere far from there. A trestle table had been set up on which lay a pine coffin, and Alice could just make out within it the body of Garrett Bligh, his face relaxed in death, so much so that, for a moment, she wondered whether it was him at all. His hollowed cheekbones had somehow softened, his brow now smooth under soft, dark hair. Only his face was visible, the rest of him covered with an intricate patchwork quilt and strewn with flowers and herbs that scentedthe air. She had never seen a dead body, but somehow here, surrounded by the songs and warmth of the people around him, it was hard to feel shock or discomfort at its proximity.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Alice said. It was the only phrase she had been coached to say, and here it seemed sterile and useless. Kathleen opened her eyes and, taking a moment to register, smiled vaguely at Alice. Her eyes were rimmed pink and shadowed with exhaustion.
‘He was a fine man, and a fine father,’ said Margery, sweeping in and holding her tightly. Alice wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Margery hug someone before.
‘He’d had enough,’ Kathleen murmured, and the child in her arms looked at her blankly, her thumb thrust deep into her mouth. ‘I couldn’t wish him to stay any longer. He’s with the Lord now.’
The slack of her jaw and her sad eyes failed to mirror the conviction of her words.
‘Did you know Garrett?’ An older woman with two crocheted shawls around her shoulders tapped the four inches of bed-space beside her, so that Alice felt obliged to squeeze her way in too.
‘Oh, a little. I – I’m just the librarian.’
The woman peered at her, frowning.
‘I only knew him from my visits.’ It came out apologetically, as if she knew she shouldn’t really be there.
‘You’re the lady used to read to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, child! That was such a comfort to my son.’ The woman reached out and pulled Alice to her. Alice stiffened, then gave in to her. ‘Kathleen told me many times how much Garrett looked forward to your visits. How they would take him quite out of himself.’
‘Your son? Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.’ She meant it.‘He really did seem the nicest of men. And he and Kathleen were so very fond of each other.’
‘I’m much obliged to you, Miss …’
‘Mrs Van Cleve.’
‘My Garrett was a fine young man. Oh, you didn’t see him before. He had the broadest shoulders this side of the Cumberland Gap, didn’t he, Kathleen? When Kathleen married him there were a hundred crying girls between here and Berea.’
The young widow smiled at the memory.
‘I used to tell him I had no idea how he could even make his way into that mine with a build like his. Course, now I wish he hadn’t. Still –’ the older woman swallowed and lifted her chin – ‘not for us to question God’s plan. He’s with his own father and he’s with God the Father. We just have to get used to being down here without him, don’t we, sweetheart?’ She reached out and squeezed her daughter-in-law’s hand.
