The Buddha asked a Shramana, ‘How long is the human lifespan?’ He replied, ‘A few days.’ The Buddha said, ‘You have not yet understood the Way.’ He asked another Shramana, ‘How long is the human lifespan?’ The reply was, ‘The space of a meal.’ The Buddha said, ‘You have not yet understood the Way.’ He asked another Shramana, ‘How long is the human lifespan?’ He replied, ‘The length of a single breath.’ The Buddha said, ‘Excellent. You have understood the Way.’ ”
The words flowed over Viola. She had no idea what they meant. She had taken Sunny’s class as usual. She saw no reason not to. It would be tomorrow morning before she would be able to get on a flight back to Britain. She waited until Sunny had Namasted everyone, the eat-pray-love brigade behaving as if he was bestowing a blessing on them before they trooped reluctantly out into the heat and humidity of the early evening. Viola stayed.
“Viola?” Sunny said and smiled solicitously at her as if she were an invalid. “The nursing home called,” she said. “My father’s dying.”
“Grandpa Ted?” Sunny’s brow furrowed and he bit his lip and for a moment she saw the shade of a younger Sunny. “Are you going back?”
“Yes. Although I expect Bertie will get there long before me. Are you going to come?”
“No,” Sunny said.
There were many things Viola could have said at this point. She had thought of all of them while gazing at the forest, the sacred river, the birds, “I’m sorry” being foremost, but instead she told him about the dream.
“And then you turned to me and you were smiling and you said, ‘We did it, Mum! Everyone got on the train.’ ”
“I don’t think it was about the train.”
“No,” Viola agreed. “It was how I felt when you spoke to me.”
“Which was?”
“Overwhelmed by love. For you.”
Oh, Viola. At last.
Bertie had brought a copy of The Last Chronicle of Barset with her and sat at Teddy’s bedside reading to him. She knew it was one of his favourite books and she supposed it didn’t matter much whether or not he could understand the words because it might be soothing for him to hear the familiar rhythms of Trollope’s prose.
He made a little sound, not speech, but something, as if he was confused. She put the book down on his bedspread and held one of his fragile, clawed hands in hers. “It’s Bertie Moon here, Grandpa,” she said. The flesh on his hands was like melted tallow and the veins were great blue ropes. His other hand was held up at a right angle and he waved it around gently as if he was asking to be excused. Which he was, she supposed.
He was a baby once, she thought. New and perfect, cradled in his mother’s arms. The mysterious Sylvie. Now he was a feathery husk, ready to blow away. His eyes were half open, milky, like an old dog, and his mouth had grown beaky with the extremity of age, opening and closing, a fish out of water. Bertie could feel a continual tremor running through him, an electrical current, the faint buzz of life. Or death, perhaps. Energy was gathering around him, the air was static with it.
Teddy was fighting F-Fox, trying to keep her flying straight and level. She wanted to give up. The bomb-aimer—Clifford—appeared by his side and said the fire had prevented him from getting to the rear-gunner. Teddy knew nothing about the boy except that he looked terrified out of his mind and Teddy thought he had been brave to go and help the rear-gunner—Charlie—who he also knew nothing about. The only thing Teddy could think at that moment was that those boys had to be saved. He told Clifford to jump, but he had lost his parachute and Teddy said, “Take mine. Take it, go on, jump!” and Clifford hesitated but obeyed his captain and took the parachute and disappeared through the escape hatch.
He was St. George and England was his Cleolinda but the dragon was overpowering him, burning him up with its fiery breath. There was a curtain of flames behind him. He could feel them beginning to scorch his seat. The intercom was no longer working and he didn’t know if the rear-gunner had got out or not so he carried on wrestling with F-Fox.