This Island Now is a contemporary novel completed one year ago. It is undergoing revision.
At this point in the novel, Christophe a heart surgeon, is visiting his dying father, and his mother, from whom he has been estranged for some time. He and his father are reading together – a copy of Eliot’s Four Quartets which John, Christophe’s friend, has annotated.
Christophe crosses the room to sit by his father, and opens the page. He turns to the first quartet, Burnt Norton. He hopes his father loses interest after a while, because he doesn’t want to share some of John’s comments – he’s been particularly harsh to himself on the “gifts reserved for age” in Little Gidding. Christophe has devoured the book, learning John’s mind, feeling the calibre of his thought, and he’s now reading it again, with more care. He sees John’s loneliness, his self-doubt, his sadness, but he wants to keep them private.
‘ “Time present and time past,’ he clears his throat, ‘are both perhaps present in time future” ’
‘I like this,’ says Nicholas, interrupting after a few lines, and he touches the place on the page where John, in his even, pointed script, has cross-referenced Ash Wednesday. ‘I like “this is the time of tension between dying and birth . . . the dream-crossed twilight – ” ’.
‘ “From the wide window, towards the granite shore”,’ Christophe recites, ‘ “the white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying, unbroken wings”,’ His throat roughens, closes. ‘Papa . . . I wish we’d had more time – I am so sorry I’ve been away so much, that . . . I’m such a disappointment . . . “and the lost heart stiffens and rejoices / in the lost lilacs, and the lost sea voices” . . . I wish . . .’ He stops, blinks hard.
A fragile hand ruffles his hair and he leans into it. ‘I know that you can’t be other than what you are, my son, and I have never blamed you for anything. You are not a disappointment to me. But your mother sees things differently. I cannot change that, God knows I’ve tried, but she is obdurate. I hope that you are able to reach some sort of – after I die. I have told her I want the two of you to be at peace, but her views don’t change. Come now, read to me a little more.’
‘ “. . . the release from action and suffering . . .” ’ reads Christophe, steadily, swallowing his emotions. ‘ “release from the inner and the outer compulsion / yet surrounded by a grace of sense, a white light, ” ’
‘Yes,’ says his father, soft, tasting the words. ‘This is good for me, Christophe. It helps. What does our friend say about it?’
‘F-friend?’ Christophe startles. How does he know about John?
‘Whoever this book belonged to would surely be a friend,’ says Nicholas, looking at the closely-written pages.
‘ “I saw eternity the other night”,’ Christophe echoes John’s written words, ‘ “like a great ring of pure and endless light”,’
‘That’s Henry Vaughan,’ says his father, ‘ “all calm as it was bright”.’ He sighs. ‘It’s a fine dream, Christophe, but as a scientist, I find it hard to stay with my belief. Your mother wants me to see Père Luc, but I’m not sure. There seems to me to be an inherent cowardice in accepting the comforts of religion when one is at the end of one’s life, but has ignored religion throughout it. This man who wrote in the book – whoever he is – now he understands religion. I wonder why he didn’t keep it. Seems an odd thing to do to bare your soul like that, and then give the book away.’
‘Perhaps he saw a need to share his soul,’ says Christophe. ‘Papa, would you feel easier lying down? I could come and read to you there.’
‘Please,’ says Nicholas. ‘Call the nurse, and perhaps I’ll lie down for a while, but stay with me, Christophe. It’s a comfort to have you near me. And bring the book.’
But when Christophe goes upstairs ten minutes later, the nurse tells him his father has dropped into a doze. He goes into the shadowy room and just sits by the bed, watching the thin chest rise and fall. He is mesmerised by the movement, the contraction and release of muscles pushing air in and out, pumped by a heart that beats strongly: it’s not his heart that’s failing. “By the dark chamber sits its twin”, he says to himself, remembering an old book he read once, “where the body’s floods begin / and the two are twinned again, turning out and turning in”. The four chambered heart, mammalian, preserve of the creatures that are milk-fed muscle, snot, spit, sweat and semen, bone and breath. Vulnerable. He blinks, then startles. His mother comes to the door, beckons him out.
‘C’est assez pour toi,’ she says, ‘C’est a moi maintenant de lui garder, va-t’en donc. Tu peux lui visiter plus tard.’