The days yielded one to another. The months went by. Winter gave way to spring, and spring to summer.
The summer gave way to another winter, and that winter to a second summer. The Earth renewed itself; only men grew older and were not replenished. The trees grew taller, the rookeries noisier, the graveyards fuller, the streets more silent. Greybeard embarked upon the Meadow Lake in most weathers, drawing the swathes
of green reed into his boat, taking each day as it came, not fretting that a time would soon come when people would no longer have the energy to thatch or want thatch.
Martha worked on among the animals, helping Norman Morton’s assistant, the gnarled and arthritic Thorne. The work was interesting. Most mammals were now bringing forth normal young, though the cows, of which they possessed only a small herd, still threw miscarriages as often as not. As healthy beasts were reared, they were auctioned in the quad market alive, or slaughtered and sold as meat.
To Martha it seemed that a kind of eclipse overtook Greybeard’s spirit. When he came back from Joe Flitch’s in the evening, he rarely had much to say, though he listened with interest to her store of gossip about the college, acquired through Thorne. They saw less of Charley Samuels, and very little of Jeff Pitt. At the same time, they were slow to make new friends. Their putative friendship with Morton and the other Students withered directly the financial deal was struck.
Martha let this altered situation make no difference to her relationship with her husband. They had known each other too long, and through too many stresses. To strengthen her purpose, she thought of their love as the lake on which Algy laboured day in, day out; the surface mirrored every change of weather, but below was a deep undisturbed place. Because of this, she let the days run away and kept her heart open.
She returned to their rooms – they had moved to better rooms on the first floor in Peck – one golden summer evening, to find her husband there before her. He had washed his hands and freshly combed his beard.
They kissed each other.
“Joe Flitch is having a row with his wife. He sent me home early so that he could get on with it in peace, so he said. And there’s another reason why I’m back – it’s my birthday.”
“Oh, darling, and I’ve forgotten! I hardly ever think of the date – just the day of the week.”
“It’s June the seventh, and I am fifty-six, and you look as beautiful as ever.”
“And you’re the youngest man in the world!”
“Still? And still the handsomest?”
“Mmm, yes, though that’s a very subjective judgement. How shall we celebrate? Are you going to take me to bed?”
“For a change, I’m not. I thought you’d like a little sail in the dinghy, as the evening’s fine.”
“Darling, haven’t you had enough of that dinghy, bless you? Yes, I’d love to have a sail, if you want to.”
He stroked her hair and looked down at her dear lined face. Then he opened his left hand and showed her the bag of money there. She stared questioningly at him.
“Where did you get it, Algy?”
“Martha, I’ve done my last day’s reed-cutting. I’ve been mad this last year and a half, just slaving my life away. And what for? To earn enough money to buy that bloody obsolete truck stuck in the cathedral.” His voice broke. “I’ve expected so much of you… I’m sorry, Martha, I don’t know why I did it – or why you didn’t hit me for it, but now I’ve forgotten the crazy idea – I’ve withdrawn my money from the Bursar, the best part of two year’s savings. We’re free to go, to leave this dump altogether!”
“Oh, Algy, you… Algy, I’ve been happy here. You know I’ve been happy – we’ve been happy, we’ve been quiet together. This is home.”
“Well, now we’re going to move on. We’re still young, aren’t we, Martha? Tell me we’re still young! Let’s not rot here. Let’s complete our old plan and sail down the river and go on until we get to its mouth and the clean sea. You would like to, wouldn’t you? You can, can’t you?”