Michael stood frozen: behind an ancient oak, a sad-eyed dog was watching hima dog he would have recognised among thousands.
The dust on the country lane drifted lazily, as if it too could not be bothered to travel any further. Michael switched off the engine by the sagging, lopsided fence, but made no move to leave the old car. He simply sat, feeling the low hum of the engine still working beneath him.
For fifteen long years, he had avoided this place. And now he had returned. Why? He couldnt quite tell, even to himself. Perhaps to finish a conversation that had never started. Perhaps hoping for forgiveness he no longer deserved.
Well, you old fool, he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, youve made it.
He turned the key; the engine fell silent. At once, thick countryside quiet descendedheavy, scented with summer hay and ancient sorrows. Far away, a dog barked. A gate creaked somewhere. Still he lingered, as though afraid to step outside and meet the past face to face.
A memory stirred: she was by that very gate, waving goodbye. He looked back only once. Just once. She was no longer waving; her head was tilted as she watched him.
Ill come back, hed shouted.
He never did.
He hauled himself out, straightened his collar, but his knees nearly buckled in the tall grass. Ridiculous, he thought. Sixty years lived, and still fearful of meeting your ghosts.
The gate no longer creakedsomeone must have oiled the hinges. Valerie always complained, We really must do something about that squeak, Mike, its enough to unsettle anyone. Get some oil next time, wont you? But he never did.
The garden was much the same. Only the old apple tree stooped heavy to the ground, and the house itself seemed to breathe more slowly, twice as old. The curtains at the windows were differentsomeone elses, not Valeries.
Michael followed the familiar path towards the churchyard, resolving to finally voice all that went unsaid for fifteen years.
He stopped, rooted to the spot.
From behind a silver birch, a russet dog with a white chest gazed at himthose same watchful eyes hed once dubbed golden. Not merely similar. The very same.
Sheba…? he whispered.
The dog did not rush over, nor bark. She simply watched him: quietly, as if asking, Where have you been? We waited.
Michaels breath caught.
Sheba never moved. She sat, silent as a shadow, but the eyesthose knowing eyes. Valerie had often laughed, Shebas our family psychiatrist. Sees right through us. Looks straight into your soul.
My goodness… he murmured, how are you still here?
Dogs do not live so long.
But Sheba rose, gingerly as if every joint pained her, and approached, sniffing his hand before turning her head aside. No resentment. Simply the dogs way of saying: I remember you. But you are very late.
You remember me, Michael said quietly, not expecting an answer. Of course you do.
Sheba whimpered softly.
Im so sorry, Val, he whispered, squatting by the cold stone. Sorry for being a coward. For running when I should have stayed. For choosing a career and ending up with empty rooms and endless, pointless journeys. For being too afraid to simply be yours.
He talked for a long time, sitting by the old gravestonetelling her about grey, wasted years, about women whod never touched his heart, about how many times hed meant to call her only to put it off for lack of time, or courageor the faint hope someone here still waited.
He walked back not aloneSheba trotted behind him, reinstating him, perhaps not joyfully but without hostility.
The door banged at the house.
Who are you? asked a firm womans voice.
A woman of around forty stood on the porch, dark hair pulled back, face gravebut her eyes… the same as Valeries.
Im… Michael, he said awkwardly. I used to
I know who you are, she interrupted. Anna. Her daughter. Dont you recognise me?
Anna, Valeries daughter from her first marriage. She bore a look as if every word inside her scorched.
She descended the steps and Sheba immediately moved closer to her.
Its been half a year since Mums gone, Anna said evenly. Where were you then? When she was ill? When she waited? When she still had faith?
Her words struck him like a blow.
I… I didnt know.
Didnt you? she gave a hollow laugh. Mum kept all your letters. Every one, neatly tied with ribbon. Knew all your addresses. You werent difficult to find. But you never looked.
He fell silent. What could be said? He had written at first, then the letters dwindled, blurred into work and travel and foreign places. Valerie faded, like a bright dream to which one never returns.
She… she was very ill? he forced the words.
No. Just her heart, you see. It simply grew tired of waiting.
The calm in Annas voice made it worse.
Sheba whined quietly. Michael closed his eyes.
Mums last words, Anna added, were: If Mike ever comes back, tell him I dont blame him. I understand.
Of course she did. Always understood. Hed never tried to understand himself.
Shebawhy was she at the churchyard?
Anna sighed. She goes every day. Sits nearby. Waits.
Dinner was eaten in silence. Anna spoke of being a nurse, of a marriage ended in disappointmentno children. Only Sheba now, her anchor, her remnant of her mother.
May I… stay for a couple of days? Michael asked.
Anna met his gaze squarely.
And then leave again?
Im not sure, he answered honestly. I just dont know.
He stayed. Not one day, but a week. Then two. Anna stopped asking about his leaving. Perhaps she saw he no longer knew himself.
He mended the fence, relaid the path, fetched water from the well. The work made his bones ache, but his soul was still, at peace for the first time in years.
Sheba truly forgave him only after a week. Then, one evening, she came to him, lay down with her head on his boot. Anna commented quietly, Shes forgiven you.
Michael looked from the window: the dog, the apple tree, the house still warm with traces of Valerie.
And will you? he asked Anna softly.
Anna was a long time answering, weighing every word.
Im not Mum, she said in the end. It is harder for me. But… Ill try.
Sheba continued to wake before everyone else. Even before dawn, she would slip away soundlessly, purpose unmistakable. At first Michael paid no heeddogs are creatures of habituntil he noticed she always paced toward the churchyard.
She goes every day, Anna explained. Since Mum went. She lies there until dusk, as if standing guard over memory.
A dogs memory, it seemed, was sturdier than a humans. People could excuse themselves, forget the pain, develop habits to shield themselves. Dogs simply loved, remembered, and waited.
The morning the clouds pressed down so low they almost brushed the thatch, it rained by noon, and by evening a wild storm battered the village. Rain lashed the windows, the birches bent double.
Shebas still not back, Anna said anxiously, staring into the dark. She always returns for supper. Its nearly nine now.
Michael looked out too. Rain soaked everything and, save for lightning, even the trees vanished.
Shes old, Anna gripped the sill. In this weather… If somethings wrong…
Have you got a brolly?
Of course, Anna replied, boss-eyed. Youre not thinking?
But Michael was already wrestling into his mackintosh.
If shes there, shell not come home. Shell stay, rain or thunder. And at her age, a night soaked through
He didnt finish. Anna got the torch and a daisy-spotted blue umbrellathe sturdiest she had.
The road to the churchyard was a muddy torrent. The torch light barely pierced the curtain of rain. The wind fought the umbrella, turning it inside out every few yards. Michael pressed on, stumbling, cursing under his breath.
Sixty years old, he thought, joints creaking like an ancient door, sure to catch my death. And still I go. Because I must.
The churchyards little gate clattered, unlatched by the wind. Michael stepped through and swept the beam low. There she was.
Sheba lay beside Valeries grave, pressed against the old wooden cross. Soaked, shivering, but unmoving. She didnt lift her head until he was beside her.
Come on, old girl… he knelt, unmindful of mud. Oh, you silly thing…
For a long moment she watched him, weary, almost speaking: I cant leave her alone. I remember.
Vals gone, he said, voice trembling. But youre here. And so am I. Were together now.
He peeled off his coat, wrapped Sheba, carefully cradled her in his arms. She didnt resistshe had no strength left, nor did he, but that hardly mattered now.
Forgive us, Val, he whispered into the cold night. Forgive me, for coming too late. And hershe couldnt let go.
The rain finally stopped by morning. Michael sat all night by the stove, blanket-wrapped dog on his knee, soothing, murmuring as one does to a lost child. Anna brought warm milk. Sheba sipped only a little.
Is she ill? Anna asked.
No… Michael shook his head. Just weary.
Sheba lived another two weeks. Quiet, never straying further than a few yards from Michael, as if determined not to waste a seconds company.
He watched her slip away: each day she slowed, her eyes closed longer. But there was no fearonly acceptance, and strangely, a sense of peace. As though she understood: at last, it was safe.
Sheba passed away at dawn. She lay beside the doorstep, head on paws, and simply dozed away. Michael found her with the first light.
They buried her beside Valerie. Anna agreed at once, saying her mother would have smiled at such a reunion.
That evening she handed Michael a string of heavy keys.
I think Mum would have wanted you to stay. Not leave again.
Michael stared at the old brass, dulled by years. The very key he once carried, before abandoning it all.
And you? he asked quietly. Do you want me to stay?
Annas exhale was heavy with all the unloved years between them.
I… Yes, she nodded. I do. The house shouldnt stand empty. AndI need a father.
A father. A word hed feared all his life. Not from dislike, but from doubt. Yet perhaps, so long as life endures, its never too late to learn.
All right, he said. Ill stay.
A month later, the city flat was sold, and Michael returned for good. He tended the garden, mended the roof, painted the walls. The silence around was no longer suffocating; now, it breathed with the earth.
He visited the churchyard. He spoke to Valerie. And to Sheba. Told them of his day, the weather, what hed planted, whom hed met.
Sometimes he imagined they listened. That thought brought a calmness he had not felt in many, many years.
So very many years ago.
