It was cold. Boy exhaled; his breath steam in the frigid air. He shivered, wondering what it must be like outside. He shrank further into the bed pulling blankets tighter around him. He wanted sleep but the heaving deck of the Pequod held him. Also, he was loath to expose himself to the cold in crossing to turn out the light. He made a pact with himself; two more chapters and he'd make a dash for the light switch. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Ahab.

    A faint noise disturbed his whaling exploits. It was Father performing the nightly ritual. Although elderly, he still worked and liked to retire to bed early. Mother, some twenty years younger, shared Boy's passion for reading. And so, over the years the ritual had developed. While Father would slip between the sheets shortly after 10.00 p.m. Mother would sit by the fire immersed in a book. Some time later - this varied with his mood - Father would open their bedroom door, wait a few seconds and then close it again. Mother would then wait ten minutes before answering the unspoken summons. Boy glanced at his clock. Father was late tonight; it was nearly midnight. He was resigned to finally bedding down; Mother would switch his light out when she came up. At least he would be spared the cold.

   
     As he re-arranged his bedding a loud thud came from his parents' bedroom.

     Mother's voice drifted up from downstairs.

    ‘What's that noise? What are you doing?'

    ‘It wasn't me. I didn't do anything,' Boy replied.

    There was silence; a vacuum laced with threat.

    ‘Father?' Boy called.

     Father didn't reply.

    ‘Father!' Boy shouted, throwing himself out of bed.

     Mother's feet pounded on the stairs

    Boy crossed the landing to his parents' bedroom. At the door he froze. Father lay there, cruciform, his head on one side. His breathing was ragged, erratic, each breath a battle. He stumbled as Mother burst into the room, pushing him aside.

    ‘Oh God,' she wailed. ‘Oh God.'

    She knelt beside her husband, shaking him, gently at first; more vigorously as she failed to get a response.

    ‘Help me Boy, help me.'

    He stood, rooted, trying desperately to make sense of the scene. Father, a strong, indefatigable bull of a man, lay helpless, weak and unable. Finally, Mother's words penetrated the unbelief.

    ‘Help me get him onto the bed.'

    He bent, grappling for purchase on the unresponsive body. Together they heaved and pushed the massive form onto the bed.

    ‘Run Boy, get the doctor.'

    Boy didn't move. Mother's hand cracked across his cheek.

    ‘Get the doctor,' she screamed.

    He moved, running, escaping the impossible tableau. Back to his room, pulling on jeans, jersey, baseball boots. He tore down the stairs, missing the last and crashing into the wall. His dog; Puppy; came yapping and snapping playfully at his feet. He paused. Father had bought him the dog for his birthday, just a brief month before. He shook his head, clearing the thought and headed for the door leaving the puzzled mongrel trailing in his wake.

Outside, February cold tore at his lungs as he ran. Doctor's surgery was seven streets away, help was seven streets away. Boy ran without thought for his route - he knew these streets, the loose paving stones in Oakland Street, the slippery cellar door outside the pub. As he automatically skirted these dangers other obstacles, thoughts, clattered through his mind.

    Doctor does live there doesn't he? What if he won't come? What if there's nobody there? I'll call an ambulance, that's it. I'll call an ambulance.

    The phrase became a mantra, calming him until:

    Where from?

    The local ‘phone box was out of order; the nearest one was a mile or more away. No. 95 had one; the only one in the street; but would they answer the door so late on such a cold night ...

    He turned into Beamont St. The surgery stood halfway down, light blazing from an upper window. Sliding to a stop, he hammered on the door. Voices sounded from inside. He hammered again.  The door flew open. Man stood there.

    ‘What? What is it? Don't you know what time it is?'

    Boy stood, gasping for breath. ‘Doctor...,' he managed, ‘Mother  ... said... get ... Doctor.'

    ‘The doctor's not here,' the man answered sharply. ‘What're you doing, banging on doors at this time of the night?'

    ‘Get him'

    ‘What? Get who?'

    ‘Get Doctor. Father's not well'

    ‘Who's not well? What's wrong?'

    ‘Father. I don't know. He's just not well.'

    ‘Listen, I can't just go calling doctors out willy nilly. Where's your mother?'

    ‘With Father. She said get...'

    ‘Well you just tell your mother to come and explain the problem; alright?'

    Boy stared at the man. Why couldn't Man just phone Doctor? Didn't Man realise? Panic seized him, stilling his tongue.

    ‘Well, don't just stand there. Off you go!'

    The man stepped back into the hallway. Finally, Boy remembered his plan.

    'Phone an ambulance,' he muttered to an already closed door.

He slipped on the cellar door on the way back, stumbled and fell into the road skinning his hands and grazing his left knee. He felt the impact but didn't register the pain; his determination to get back home.

    What do I tell Mother? Will she understand? It wasn't my fault.

    The front door stood open throwing light across the pavement. He thundered up the stairs and re-entered the horror. Mother sat on the bed, cradling the head of her stricken husband.

    ‘Well? Is he coming? How long?'

    ‘Doctor wasn't there Man didn't understand he said he couldn't call him without knowing what's wrong told him Father was ill but he didn't listen hasn't called an ambulance said you have to go he wouldn't understand wouldn't listen. I'm sorry.'

    He slid down the wall and sat, hands on his knees, head bowed.

    ‘I'm sorry. I couldn't make him understand. I'm sorry.'

    Mother gently laid her man's head aside, rose and crossed to Boy. She rested her hand upon his head. He looked up, tears ran down his cheeks.

    ‘I'm sorry.'

    ‘It's alright,' she said gently, ‘I'll get the doctor. You sit with Father until I get back.'

    He nodded assent. She left.

    For a while after she had left he sat, listening to Father's breathing. Each laboured intake of breath reminded him of a child sucking up the last dregs of milk through a straw; while each exhalation was the wet slobbering of a deflating balloon. He got up and quietly, as if loath to disturb, crossed to the bedside. He sat and gazed down at the beloved face. The jaws were slack, mouth gaping. Saliva dribbled from one corner. Distressed to see Father so, he leant forward, gingerly wiping away the spittle with his sleeve.

    Suddenly frightened, he recoiled to the end of the bed, as though some unseen authority waited to pounce on his trespass. He sidled slowly back up the bed towards Father. Unsure of what he should do Boy carefully took the man's hand, patting it gently as Mother would to sooth a frightened or hurt child. Sitting there, he looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. The pink marble effect bedroom suite, Father's sop to his wife's femininity, was in stark contrast to the man's own solid dark-wood wardrobe. Rose patterned wallpaper wreathed the room while some unidentified plant crawled over the curtains. He noticed Father's banjo in the corner and wondered idly if Brother, presently in Borstal, would want it.

    Horrified by his thoughts he turned back to his father.

    ‘I'm sorry Father. I didn't mean that. Honest, I didn't.'

    He continued, suddenly desperate to confess.

    ‘I'm sorry about the doctor too Father. The man didn't realise and I couldn't make him understand. I didn't know what to say and, and, and I forgot to ask him for the ambulance and he just closed the door and ... I'm sorry Father, I'm sorry... sorry.'

    His voice breaking he hugged the hand to his chest. Head bowed, he rocked gently back and forth weeping softly.

    ‘Don't die,' he sobbed, ‘don't die.'

    He turned, laying a hand on his father's cheek.

    ‘Please Father,' he whispered.

   Footsteps on the stairs disturbed him. He stood hurriedly, dropping Father's hand as if guilty of sacrilege. Mother entered the room accompanied by Man from the surgery. He acknowledged Boy hesitatingly.

    ‘I'm sorry son. You weren't very clear.'

    He glared at Man briefly then turned away; anger and guilt struggling for dominance. A third figure, Next-door Neighbour, entered. As the adults crowded in Boy found himself pushed into a corner; Mother occupied his recently abandoned post. Surgery Man stood close by muttering reassuring nonsense about there being no pain and how Father couldn't have known anything about it. Neighbour took up a constant to-ing and fro-ing across the bottom of the bed, incessantly ‘Oh dear -ing' and ‘Oh my-ing.' The sound of an engine broke the repetition. Man glanced through the curtains.

    ‘Ambulance is here,' he declared.

    Mother stood, caught as Boy had been. Man leaned towards Neighbour muttering. A nod of his head indicated Boy.

    ‘Oh! Of course,' she whispered.

    She turned to him, a forced smile cracking her face.

    ‘Come along,' she said, ‘let's give the ambulance-men some room.'

    ‘I'm not leaving,' he replied.

    ‘Come on now,' she caught his arm, ‘don't be silly. Let's go and make a cup of tea, eh!'

    She ushered him out of the room. At the door he stopped, looking back, desperate to stay with Mother and Father. Large men in uniforms came tramping up the stairs.

    ‘Excuse me son,' said the first, stepping past him and blocking his view.

    Neighbour tugged gently at his sleeve.

    ‘Come along, there's nothing you can do.'

Boy stared into the fire. The ambulance had gone. The men had taken something with them. He had seen them through the living room door although Interfering Neighbour had tried to distract him. It had been covered by a red blanket. His mind refused to believe it had been Father. Mother was talking to Surgery Man and Neighbour at the front door; he could hear the tears in her voice. An overloud ‘goodnight' heralded their departure. He turned to face a stranger.

    She was suddenly old, weak and uncertain. Her hands hung limply at her side; her face was expressionless, eyes staring off into the distance. She was lost. Watching her, he felt lost too. Lost in a house suddenly too big. The tiny room engulfed him, crushing him in its vast emptiness. The room started to spin and he felt sick. He steadied himself against the mantle. He must be strong now; Good Advice Neighbour had said that; Mother needed him to be strong for her. He took a deep breath.

    ‘What do we do now?' he asked.

    ‘We have to ‘phone the hospital,' she murmured

    ‘When? Why?'

    ‘Now I suppose. They didn't say. We have to find out what's happened.'

    ‘Then, is he going to ...'

    ‘No,' she shook her head,' no. I don't think he is.'

The walk to the ‘phone box was dreadful. They clung to each other, shocked, weary. Familiar streets were dark pitiless canyons; they were alone, abandoned in their loss. Boy stood outside the box as Mother made the call. She replaced the receiver with finality; a full stop on the tragedy.

   ‘He's gone; dead on arrival.' She shrugged, defeated.     
     ‘Nothing they could do.'

     He half turned away then looked back.

     ‘Maybe if they'd got there sooner ...' he begged.

    ‘Maybe, we'll never know.' She turned and walked away.