Dreaming of the Bones

garden lay in deep evening shadow, and the kitchen lights came on in the house opposite as he watched. He felt isolated, and suddenly the prospect of an evening alone in the flat with only the cat for company seemed very uninviting.
    He remembered when he’d welcomed such evenings as a much-needed buffer from the demands of work, had even resented all but the occasional social obligation. But it seemed he had changed without realizing it. He missed Gemma, damnit, and to his surprise he found he missed Toby and the usual confusion of their evening routine.
    A shadowy movement in the garden below caught his eye, and the shape coalesced into his downstairs neighbor, Major Keith, rising from a kneeling position. Although he and the Major had become friends upon the death of their neighbor, Jasmine Dent, and the Major often looked after Sid for him, Kincaid had seen him little the past few months. ”Major! Come up for a drink,” he called on impulse. That omission, at least, was something he could rectify.
    The Major waved at him in acknowledgment, and a few minutes later appeared at Kincaid’s door, looking freshly scrubbed and brushed. A short, stocky man, his skin had never lost the tropical sunburn acquired during his years in India , and his thinning, iron-gray hair still bristled with military correctness. Kincaid had found, however, that the man’s gruff and reticent manner concealed a kind heart and a keen perception, and he had come to both like and trust him.
    When the Major ‘had settled into Kincaid’s armchair with a generous whisky, he cleared his throat and drew his brows together. ”So, Mr. Kincaid, I haven’t seen your young lady about much recently.”
    It was as close to a direct question as Kincaid had ever heard the Major ask, and deserved an honest answer. ”Um, she’s a bit put out with me, actually. My ex-wife rang me up out of the blue, asking a favor, and the whole business seems to have made Gemma cross.”
    ”Did you grant the favor, then?” asked the Major.
    ”As much as I could, yes. It was a professional matter, and I haven’t quite wrapped it up.”
    The Major looked at him thoughtfully, and after a moment said, ”Could it be that you’re not eager to wrap things up, as it were?”
    Kincaid looked away from the Major’s direct gaze. Was he delaying things unnecessarily? In the beginning, he’d been motivated only by curiosity and courtesy, but now a simple phone call telling Vic what he’d learned would have discharged his obligation—had he really needed to arrange to see her again?
    He had to admit he was intrigued by the contrast between the woman he’d known and the woman she’d become, and yet at the same time he was drawn by the familiarity of her. ”I don’t know,” he said finally.
    The Major appeared to give this inadequate answer due consideration while he sipped his drink, then said slowly, ”Tempting as it may be. I’ve found it unwise to try to recapture the past.”

    Newnham
    21 April 1962

    Dearest Mummy,

    I’m a bit late with my letter this week, but I’ll write until I can’t keep my eyes open a moment longer.
    The day began gray and drippy, a good day for working, so I settled in early at my desk, surrounded by an enormous pile of books, and started the outline for my paper on the English Moralists. This is my opportunity to synthesize all the reading I’ve done the last two terms, as well as to express my own opinions, and I must say I feel enthusiastic about it, daunting as it is.
    By noon the wind had scoured the sky of clouds and I was bursting to get outside and stretch and breathe in the glorious day, so I knocked up Daphne and told her to get dressed for a walk. Poor girl, she was still yawning and knuckling her eves in her nightdress after an all-night swot, and with that mass of auburn hair and oval face she looked a bit like the risen Venus. But she’s a good sport and soon had herself tidied up and kitted out, so off we went.
    It was a cold, clean day, and our feet seemed to take the way to Grantchester without volition. We swung briskly along on the river path with the north wind pushing at our backs, and before we knew it we’d reached the meadows. There is a certain spot that I love, perhaps a bit more than halfway, and I always feel I deserve to stop and rest for a minute and survey my domain. To the north the spires of Cambridge float, disembodied, above the plain. Revolve, and to the south lies Grantchester’s huddle of