The Bone Clocks

Nigel skids down the hall and into the living room; my trout gazes up with a disappointed eye. A few moments later, Nigel’s back. “Hugo, that was a Diana on the phone for you—Diana Spinster, Spankser, Spencer, didn’t quite catch it. She said you could pop over to the palace while her husband’s touring the Commonwealth … Something about Tantric plumbing? She said you’d understand.”

“There’s this operation, little brother. It would help that one-track mind of yours. Vets do it cheaply.”

“Who wason the phone, Nigel?” asks Mum. “Before you forget.”

“Mrs. Purvis at the Riverside Villas. She said to tell Hugo that the brigadier’s feeling better today, and if he’d still like to visit this afternoon, he’d be welcome to call between three and five o’clock.”

“Great. If you’re sure you can spare me, Dad …”

“Go go go. Your mother and I are very proud of how you still go to read to the brigadier, aren’t we, Alice?”

Mum says, “Very.”

“Thanks,” I shrug awkwardly, “but Brigadier Philby was so brilliant when I went to see him for my civics class at Dulwich, and so full of stories. It’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, God.” Nigel groans. “Someone’s locked me up inside an episode of Little House on the Prairie.”

“Then let me offer you a way out,” says Dad. “If Hugo’s visiting the brigadier, you can help me collect the tree.”

Nigel looks aghast. “But Jasper Farley and I are going to Tottenham Court Road this afternoon!”

“What for?” Alex loads his fork. “All you do is slobber over hi-fi gear and synthesizers you can’t afford.”

We hear a small crash out on the patio. From the corner of my eye I see a flash of black. A toppled flower pot skitters across the patio, the spade tips over, and the black flash turns into a cat with a robin in its mouth. The bird’s wings are flapping. “Oh.” Mum recoils. “That’s horrible. Can’t we do something? The cat looks so pleased with itself.”

“It’s called survival of the fittest,” says Alex.

“Why don’t I lower the blinds?” asks Nigel.

“Better let nature take its course, darling,” says Dad.

I get up and go out through the back door. The cold air shocks my skin as I go, “Shoo, shoo!” to the cat. The feline hunter leaps onto the garden shed. It watches me. Its tail sashays. The mangled bird is twitching in the black cat’s mouth.

I hear the boomy scrape of an airplane.

A twig snaps. I am intensely alive.

“ACCORDING TO MY husband,” Nurse Purvis steams along moppable carpet to the library of Riverside Villas, “the youth of today are either scroungers-on-benefits, queers, or I’m-all-right-Jacks.” The smell of pine-scented disinfectant stings my nostrils. “But as long as Great Britain breeds fine young men of your cut, Hugo, Ifor one say we shan’t be collapsing into barbarism any time soon, mmm?”

“Please, Nurse Purvis, my head won’t fit through the library door.” We turn the corner and find a resident clinging to the handrail. She’s frowning at the wintry garden, as if she’s left something out there. A string of drool connects her lower lip to her spearmint-green cardigan.

“Standards, Mrs. Bolitho,” says the nurse, hipping out a tissue from her sleeve. “What do we watch? Our standards, mmm?” She scoops up the saliva stalactite and deposits the tissue in the bin. “You’ll remember Hugo, Mrs. Bolitho—the brigadier’s young friend.”

Mrs. Bolitho turns her head; I think of my trout at lunch.

“Great to see you again, Mrs. Bolitho,” I say cheerfully.

“Say hello to Hugo, Mrs. Bolitho. Hugo’s a guest.”

She looks from me to Nurse Purvis and whimpers.

“What’s that? Chitty Chitty Bang Bangis on the television, in the lounge. The flying car. Why don’t we go and join them, mmm?”

A fox’s head watches us from the wall with a faint smile.

“Stay here,” Nurse Purvis tells Mrs. Bolitho, “while I take Hugo to the library. Then we’ll go to the residents’ room together.”

I wish Mrs. Bolitho a Merry Christmas but the chances are low.

“She has four sons,” Nurse Purvis leads me on, “all with a London post code, but they never visit. You’d think old age was a criminal offense, not a destination we’re all heading to.”

I consider airing my theory that our culture’s coping strategy towards death is to bury it under consumerism and Sansara, that the Riverside Villas of the world are screens that enable this self-deception, and that the elderly areguilty: guilty of proving to us that our willful myopia about death is exactly that.

But, no, let’s not complicate Nurse Purvis’s opinion of me. We reach the library where my guide continues sotto voce: “I know you won’t be put out, Hugo, if the brigadier doesn’t recognize you.”

“Not at all. Does he still suffer from the postage stamp … delusion?”

“It rears its head from time to time, yes. Oh, here’s Mariвngela—Mariвngela!”

Mariвngela approaches with a stack of neatly folded bed linen. “Yugo! Nurse Purvis, she told me you visit today. How is Norwitch?”