Staring at the Sun (27 page)

While she had murmured false certainties as fast as he could babble his fears, she had also tried to make him break off—however briefly—from this relentless concentration on self. She said she was sure Gregory would like to see him and sure that Leslie would do his best not to upset his nephew. Leslie had barely responded, and Jean had watched Gregory’s departure with apprehension; but his account of Leslie’s humorous and undefeated behavior had calmed
and impressed her. Perhaps courage in the face of death was only part of it; perhaps faking courage for those who loved you was the greater, higher courage.

Gregory had been against his mother’s plan at first. He thought it morbid.

“Of course it’s morbid,” she said. “If I can’t be morbid when I’m ninety-nine, what’s the point of it all?”

“I mean it’s unnecessarily morbid.”

“Don’t be stuffy. If you’re like that at sixty, I can’t think how you’ll get through the next forty years.”

There was a silence. Jean felt embarrassed. Odd how you can still be saying the wrong things after all these years. I hope he doesn’t do it; I hope he’s brave enough not to do it. Gregory felt embarrassed, and also irritated. She really thinks I might do it, doesn’t she? She really thinks I might not be able to resist it. But I’ve worked it all out now. And in any case, would I have been brave enough to do it?

They travelled north on a clear March afternoon. Jean paid little attention to the direction or the countryside. You had to preserve energy. Her eyes were open, but what she saw was a haze. She had temporarily turned down the gas; that was how she liked to think of it.

When they reached the small aerodrome set among fields still rimed with frost, she turned to Gregory. “Did you, by any chance, bring any champagne?”

“I thought about it, and tried to work out what you’d think, and I decided you’d consider it inappropriate. That is,” he added with a smile, “if you’re absolutely set on being morbid.”

“I am,” she said, returning his smile. She leaned across and kissed him. “It’s not at all the occasion for champagne.”

As they walked slowly across the tarmac, a little extra pressure on Gregory’s arm indicated that she wanted him to stop. It was a cold, dry day; the sun was low, dropping towards some slatted bands of cloud propped on the horizon. A small, rather old-fashioned aeroplane—an executive jet from the mid-nineties, Gregory
supposed—stood forty yards ahead of them. Bright yellow stripes and large yellow numbers were painted on the tarmac.

“It’s not much of a conclusion, Gregory dear,” she said, “but life is serious. I only mention it because I spent some years not being sure whether it was the case. But life
is
serious. And one other thing. The sky
is
the limit.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And here’s something for you.” From her pocket she took a strip of tin with letters roughly embossed on it.
JEAN SERGEANT XXX
. “You can count the Xs as kisses,” she said. Gregory felt his eyes begin to prick.

As she approached the steps to the plane, one of her furthest memories surfaced. Another set of steps.
PUNCTUALITY
, she recalled. And there was
PERSEVERANCE
. And—what?—
TEMPERANCE
. That’s right. Or rather,
TEMPERAN
. Plus
COURAGE
. That’s right,
COURAGE
. And always keep out of the Stock Exchange. She couldn’t remember any of the other words, and wished she could. After nine decades of life, she thought the advice still useful. Gregory probably needed it. Punctuality, she felt like whispering to him, Perseverance, Temperan, Courage, and keep out of the Stock Exchange.

As Gregory tenderly snapped the seat belt across her stomach, she thought, this is going to be the last Incident of my life. Oh, other things may happen; one thing in particular, a Wonder still to come. But this is the last Incident. The list is closed.

They took off to the east, crossing a leafless wood, then a deserted. golf course. A pair of bunkers stared back at them like empty eye sockets. Tiny red flags were pinned here and there as if it were some wartime model on which generals planned their advances. But it was only a golf course. Did anyone still call it the Old Green Heaven, she wondered. Not very likely. People like Uncle Leslie had died out, and his phrases with him; now the last few who remembered the phrases were dying out in their turn. The field behind the smelly wood which skirted the dogleg fourteenth. Screaming at the sky, screaming at the sky, lying in Heaven and screaming at the sky.

They gained height, and the pilot turned south so that Jean could look out to the west. She had told Gregory to sit behind, so that he could have a proper view; but he insisted on sitting next to her. She didn’t object: he’d been good about not bringing the champagne; and besides, there was no reason why he should be that interested.

The pilot held a steady height, and Jean gazed out to the west.

“I’m sorry about the cloud,” said Gregory.

She took his hand. “It doesn’t matter at all, dear.”

It didn’t. You can’t stare at the sun for too long—not even the setting, quiet sun. You would have to put your fingers in front of your face to do that. Like Sun-Up Prosser. Hand in front of his face, flying upwards through the thinning air. Thoughtfully, the sky now provided its own hand: four broad fingers of cloud stretched across the horizon, and the sun was slipping down the back of them. Several times it popped into bright view and disappeared again, like a juggler’s coin spinning slowly through the knuckles.

Then it eased from behind the last grey finger. In these final moments, the feeling of movement changed: the earth seemed to rise like slapping water and drag the sun down. The burning circle of a cigarette stubbed out, its smoke hissing off to make cloud.

Jean Serjeant felt the aeroplane begin to climb hard in a left-handed turn. She looked away from the window. She was still holding Gregory’s hand. He was crying.

“No, no,” she murmured, and gripped his large soft hand. You were a mother until the day you died, she thought. She wondered how much Gregory had watched.

After several minutes the pilot flattened out and began a second southward run. Jean turned away from Gregory’s wet face and looked out the window. The fingers of cloud no longer lay between her and the sun. They were face to face. She did not, however, give it any sign of greeting. She did not smile, and she tried very hard not to blink. The sun’s descent seemed quicker this time, a smooth slipping away. The earth did not greedily chase it, but lay flatly back with its mouth open. The big orange sun settled on the horizon,
yielded a quarter of its volume to the accepting earth, then a half, then three-quarters, and then, easily, without argument, the final quarter. For some minutes a glow continued from beneath the horizon, and Jean did, at last, smile towards this postmortal phosphorescence. Then the aeroplane turned away, and they began to lose height.